The Northlander
by Thomas Fitzgibbons
Summary: A warrior from the Northlands comes to Redwall, on a quest to turn the tide of a hopeless war.
1. Omens

**Introduction:**  I do not own the copyrights to the _Redwall_series or any of its characters or names.  In the true tradition of _Redwall_ fanfiction, however, this story will involve mostly original characters.  It takes place after the events in _Loamhedge_, when many of the elders have passed away and Fenna is Abbess of Redwall.  Now, I know many aspects of this story are not original (as far as fanfiction goes), but there is one that few, if any, fan writers have used.  Brian Jacques has touched on many aspects of England with his series, but he has only once alluded to a major part of English history: the Anglo-Saxon invasions.  With that, I will let my tale begin.

~~~~

His provisions ran out before he ever came within sight of his quest's destination.  As if to mock him, the snow began to fall at mid-morning.  Each flake was a teasing voice, delighting in his failure of fulfilling his people's hope for salvation.  The wound on his chest began to ache, adding physical agony to his psychological.  And he would not give up.

He had come too far already; there was no turning back now.  As long as he had the strength to put one paw in front of the other, he would do so until death took him.  Death, however, may have been hours away or weeks; he might go to sleep and never wake up or come across a band of marauders and be slaughtered.  Somehow, that uncertainty did not make things any worse.

The scenery did little to help.  Nothing stirred in this land, save for the falling snow.  No birds sang; no leaves rustled.  The only things to see for miles were the nearly identical trees and the road before him.  He imagined that at any moment, his destination would come into view, and he would regain his strength and return home triumphant, with the talisman that would unite the clans in his paw.

When night came, nothing had changed.  He might as well have done no walking at all.  He slept on the side of the road, next to some shrubbery that he foolishly hoped bore fruit.  The next day, he continued, dragging himself through the woodlands with only his clothes and a spear for company.  And so he continued the day after that, and the day after that.

Memories of home kept his mind off the drudgery he was putting himself through.  He remembered the meadow where he and his friends played for so many summers, the kitchen where he often helped his mother prepare meals for the family, the songs of heroes in the days of old, the sight of the valley when the sun rose over the hills… yes, he thought, someday his home would be like that again.  And he would dedicate the rest of his life to making sure it stayed that way.

~~~~

"I had a dream last night," Abbess Fenna mentioned as she and Sister Martha strolled around the abbey's courtyard.  It was odd for beasts of their seasons to walk around outside in the middle of winter, but Fenna wanted to talk with Martha alone and the outside was the only place she could do that.

"Did you really?" Martha replied teasingly.

"Be serious, Sister.  It was about Martin the Warrior."

"Well that's wonderful news!" the hare exclaimed.  "Why on earth do you look so glum?"

"Because of what he said in the dream," Fenna answered.  "These were his exact words:

Wait for the one from the land of my birth

Do not keep him long

He shall be the next to wield my blade

But he shall not defend Redwall."

Both walked on in utter silence, contemplating the mysterious words as an ominous feeling pervaded the air.

"Martin was from the Northlands, if I recall correctly," Martha said.  "So he was talking about a beast from the Northlands, and we know it will be a male because he called him a 'he.'  But that last part worries me.  Is this beast going to steal the sword or what?"

"I don't know," Fenna admitted.  "I wish Sister Setiva were still with us; she might have been able to help.  Do you remember anything about the Northlands while you were there?"

Martha lost herself in thought, struggling to make a memory surface.

"I was too young to remember anything myself," she answered.  "My mother and father never told me much about the horde that drove us from our home.  They must have been afraid my brother would go after them."

"That does sound like Horty," Fenna agreed.  A burst of shouting behind them interrupted their conversations.  Barney the volecook had discovered a thief, who had emerged from the kitchens and was streaking across the courtyard as fast as her legs could carry her.

"Come back here!" Barney bellowed, futilely chasing after the thieving squirrel.  "I'll teach you to steal pasties like that!"

Fenna shook her head.  "That Shillomir," she sighed.  "I don't know what to do with her; she's always getting into trouble--"  She stopped speaking when she saw the look Martha was giving her.

"I was not that bad!" the abbess insisted.  "Shillomir gets other beasts into trouble with her; Horty and Springald joined me voluntarily!"

"Those beasts join her voluntarily too, you know," Martha pointed out.

"_After_ Shillomir talks them into it."

"Well at least her antics aren't very destructive."

"I suppose that's a backhanded remark about me."

"Of course it is; remember the honeybomb incident?"  Fenna reacted by bursting into hysterical laughter, which she stopped when she saw Martha was giving her another look.  The abbess excused herself then, saying she had duties to attend to, and shuffled quickly away, valiantly fighting down more laughter.  Martha shook her head, and smiled when her friend and abbess had gone.

~~~~

With every step, the ragged traveler's strength waned.  Most of his weight was supported by leaning on his spear now, his legs too weak to hold him up alone.  He didn't even remember where he was going now, only that by going south he could give his people hope for survival.  And something about a sword; why was the sword important?

His foot slipped, and he collapsed face-first into the dirt and snow.  What was the point?  Why go on?  It wasn't like there was ever any hope to begin with; no one could be sure if the stories were true or not.  Snowflakes slowly began to bury him, covering his body inch by tortuous inch.  So this was what dying was like.  Fate could be so cruel; he had always expected his time to come in battle.

_Get up._

The voice came from out of nowhere.  The traveler looked up, but could see no one around anywhere.

_Do you give up so easily when so many are counting on you?  Where is your honor?_

He struggled to his knees and saw a mouse standing not more than a pace in front of him.  The mouse had a face that was strong yet kind.  It was a face that could be trusted instantly, but it was glaring at the traveler with frustration.

_You're almost there; keep going.  Remember what you're fighting for!_

The mouse disappeared as suddenly as he had come.  The traveler's memories came back to him in a flood.  His family, his home, and his brother-in-arms who had given their lives to this quest… they all were counting on them; he couldn't let them down now!

He lurched to his feet and forced his legs to carry him long after he felt their strength give out.  He didn't know how long he walked.  The world became one long slog through the falling snow and piercing cold; time stepped aside and contented itself with watching what happened.  Each step brought the traveler closer to his destiny until it revealed itself in the sky.

Rising over the trees, jabbing proudly into the air, was a wall built of red sandstone.  A red sandstone wall… red wall… Redwall!  That was the Abbey of Redwall up ahead, it had to be!  All of the songs and stories he had heard as a babe, they were true!  They were all true!

A sob of joy escaped from his throat as he ran clumsily toward the beautiful sight of the abbey.  The tears from his eyes froze in the chill air and stung his face, and the axe wound on his chest burned like fire, and he did not care.  The abbey was real, and that was all that mattered to him right now.  His comrades had not died in vain.

He ran along the road until it took him to the large gate of the abbey.  He called out to anybeast that was listening.  No answer came.  Summoning what little strength he had left, he cried out as loudly as he could, hoping that help would come.  No beast appeared.  Despairing, he cried out again and threw himself at the gate, smashing the butt of his spear against the wood again and again until he slumped to the ground and darkness took him.

~~~~

"All right now, little ones," the mousenurse Tara told the dibbuns in the courtyard, "it's supper time.  In, all of you, you don't want to be late!"

The dibbuns obliged, scampering cheerfully inside, all save for one little dormouse who stood staring at the main gate.

"Come on now, Meef," Tara told the dormouse.  "It's time to go inside, out of the cold."

"Somebeef's atha gate," the little one replied, pointing at the structure in question.  A faint, despairing cry from outside the walls confirmed what he had said.  A moment later, somebeast started pounding on the gate.  Then they stopped, and no sound followed.  A feeling of dread washed over the nurse.

"Mother Abbess!  Brother Chulain!" Tara shouted to the Great Hall.  "Come quickly; there's somebeast at the gate!  And it sounds like they're in trouble!"  As fast as they could, Abbess Fenna and the Gatekeeper, a big hedgehog named Chulain, hurried out into the courtyard with practically the entire population of the abbey wandering curiously out to see what the matter was.

Chulain wasted no time in opening up the gate, revealing an unconscious squirrel clutching a spear on the ground.  The hedgehog bent down and shook the pathetic figure, getting only a muffled groan in response.

"He's alive," Chulain determined, "but he won't be much longer if'n he stays out here much longer.  We've got to get him to the infirmary."  Fenna and Tara tried to carry the unexpected guest as best they could.  Chulain helped them out as soon as he secured the gate.  Meanwhile, curious abbeybeasts had gathered around and were talking excitedly amongst each other.

"Poor thing, 'e looks 'alf starved!"

"He's not letting go of that spear.  He must be a fighter of some sort."

"Great seasons, would you look at that cut on his chest?  It's a wonder he can still groan!"

As Chulain, Tara, and Fenna took the squirrel up to the infirmary, the abbess and Sister Martha exchanged a worried look.  Something told them that the one Martin had spoken of had arrived at Redwall.


	2. Martin's Successor

Dawn was drawing near when the stranger awoke in the infirmary.  The faint glow of coming sunlight showed itself in the window, gradually growing brighter until the landscape of Mossflower country was revealed and the larks began singing.  Shillomir had volunteered to help keep watch over Redwall's newest guest through the night, with instructions to wake Sister Martha if he should rouse.

He was already moving, twitching nervously in his sleep.  It looked like he was having some kind of nightmare.  He gasped suddenly and opened his eyes, and panic set in as he realized he was in an unfamiliar place.  Shillomir was the first beast he saw.

"Where am I?" he croaked.  Shillomir was a little taken aback by the suddenness of the situation and did not answer right away.  "Where am I?" the stranger repeated, more loudly and forcefully than before.

"It's all right," the young squirrelmaid said in a soothing voice.  She got up from the chair she was sitting in and calmly stepped towards him.  "You're safe now.  You're in Redwall Abbey."

"Redwall," the stranger mused, and relaxed against the bed.  "I made it."

Seeing that her charge had calmed down, Shillomir went and roused Sister Martha, who was sleeping soundly in another bed in the infirmary.  The abbey's healer warmly greeted the stranger and asked him how he was feeling.

"Well enough," the squirrel replied.  He noticed that the crude makeshift bandage he had used on his wound had been replaced with a proper dressing.  "You are a physician?" he asked.

"I am indeed," Martha told him.  "My name is Sister Martha, and this is Shilllomir here with me."

"Call me Shilly," the squirrelmaid chirped.  "And while we're talking about names, what's yours?"

"Tristan," the stranger replied.  "And thank you for your help."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Martha told him.  "We help anybeast who comes to our abbey in need of aid."  Tristan nodded curiously, as though he had never heard such a thing in his life.  Martha instructed Shilly to fetch some breakfast while she checked Tristan's bandaging and made sure he didn't have any other ailments.  Satisfied that he had only the one wound, the infirmary keeper moved to more social conversation.

"So where are you from?" she inquired pleasantly.

"Perhaps I can tell you later," Tristan replied.  He said the words indifferently, but Martha could not help but detect a trace of suspicion in the squirrel's tone.

Shilly returned a few moments later with a pot of porridge and three sets of bowls and spoons.  Tristan accepted his breakfast graciously, but did not start eating until Martha and Shilly had taken a bite from their own bowls.  He may have been starving, but there was no sense in taking foolish risks.

~~~~

Redwall Abbey was still abuzz from the excitement of the previous evening.  Everyone could only guess who the mysterious squirrel was or where he came from.  Some said that he was an unfortunate soul whose home had been destroyed somehow.  Others believed that he had come to warn the abbey of impending danger.  Still others went so far as to suggest that he was destined to be the next Champion of Redwall.  But with no solid evidence to support this, the abbeybeasts had to wait until the stranger was ready to talk before they could know his story.

At midday Tristan decided he was well enough to walk.  Sister Martha urged the squirrel to rest after what had certainly been a terrible ordeal for him, but Tristan was determined to get a look at the place where he was staying.  Seeing that her words fell on deaf ears, Martha asked for a volunteer to show the Abbey's visitor around.  Shilly and her mole friend Yooch agreed to give Tristan a tour.  Although the young ones' aid was not unexpected, some of the elders suspected that Shilly had reasons besides the general kindness of her heart to spend time with Tristan.

"Naow, this be'm ee gurt Abbey Pond," Yooch explained in a rustic baritone.  "We'm have all koinds of luverly feasts hurr.  Oi recall a toime when Shilly 'n oi had a baoat race h'cross it."

"Aye, but we got in trouble for it," Shilly added indifferently.  "I don't know why the elders were so upset; no beast was using those tables when we found them!"

"Wait," Tristan interrupted.  "You two used tables as boats?"  His guides nodded.  "Why didn't you just swim?"

"Oh, we were much too young to swim.  Actually, I don't know a single beast in the abbey besides the otters who _can_ swim."

"You don't know how to swim?"

"Of course not.  Do you?"

"Absolutely.  Swimming's the reason I'm alive today.  But it's a long story."

"Ho, tell us, zurr!" Yooch urged.  "Oi'd lurv to 'ear 'ow ee can swim!"

"Well," Tristan began reluctantly.  "I was once the slave of an enemy lord for three seasons, see.  A few other slaves and I devised a plan to escape by going down a nearby river.  Only we didn't have any materials to make a boat with and we would be too easy to track if we went over land, so an otter in our group taught us how to swim.  The lord found out though.  Six of us made it into the river, but all but I and another were slain by arrows."

"Oh, my," Shilly whispered.  "I've heard stories about slavery—"

"I don't want to talk about it," Tristan interrupted brusquely.

"That be'm h'okay, zurr," Yooch told him calmly.  "Let's move on naow."

The tour proceeded to the wall tops, where the Tristan could get a good look at the surrounding countryside.  Yooch went on about how Redwall maintained friendship with a number of tribes in the area, including a mountain fortress ruled by a badger lord.  He and Shilly both expressed sentiments about how they would love to see the outside world and how boring it was to live in Redwall.

"I want to go on an adventure," Shilly said earnestly at one point.

_Oh aye,_ Tristan thought sarcastically.  _Spending your whole life in safety and comfort must be dreadful._  He was courteous enough to keep this to himself, however.

As they made their way down the steps, Tristan spied a number of small shapes running around in the snow, watched over by a mouse.  Upon getting a closer look, he saw that the shapes were, in fact, babes at play.  At the sight of this, he blinked and covered his eyes before Shilly or Yooch could see his face.

"Is something the matter?" asked Shilly concernedly.

"It's nothing," Tristan insisted.  "Just something in my eye."  His guides exchanged worried glances.

"We'm best be moving on," Yooch decided.  "On naow to ee durmitoreez…"

They continued to all of the abbey's landmarks, from the dormitories to the orchard, the gatehouse with all of the records on the shelves, to the bell tower and cellars.  But it was the kitchens that Tristan remembered most.  The most wonderful smells he had ever encountered wafted from the doors, filling his nostrils with an ecstasy he never imagined.  He was amazed at the kinds of food served at the abbey, from pasties to pies to puddings.  And learning that he would be entitled to eat these wonders with the rest of the abbeybeasts gave him such anticipation of the coming evening he feared he would burst.  He asked Barney the cook if he could take some recipes home with him.  This endeared him to the volecook immediately.

"It's always nice to see a beast who can appreciate fine work," Barney beamed.  "Without stealing it," he added, casting a venomous glare at Shilly, who maintained a look of mock innocence at the remark.  When Barney averted his gaze, though, the squirrelmaid cracked a mischievous smile.

The appearance of Abbess Fenna wiped the smile from her features however.  Shilly, Yooch, and Barney greeted their abbess warmly, which said to Tristan that this new arrival was an authority figure, and one who was well-liked and respected at that.  He greeted her as he would any lord, with a bow and a kind word.

"Good day, all," the abbess returned.  "If you don't mind, I need to speak with our friend here alone."  

"Oh, of course, Mother Abbess," Shilly said.  "We can show Tristan the rest of the abbey later."

"Thank you, Shillomir," Fenna said.  "Tristan, if you would come with me…"  Tristan was led into the Great Hall, where the only beast around was a mouse who had just finished cleaning the hall and was leaving already.  It was a massive place, with enough seats to hold a small army.  A great tapestry hung at the end of the hall, with a sword mounted above it.

"Did Shillomir and Yooch show you this room yet?" Fenna inquired.

"No, not yet," Tristan answered.  "It is truly a magnificent hall."

"It is indeed," Fenna agreed.  "I never really appreciated it until I wasn't here to enjoy it, though.  But I digress.  Come my child, sit with me."  Tristan sat at one of the tables; the abbess sat across from him and folded her paws together.  She seemed to be thinking through her words, and it was several moments before she spoke.

"You are from the Northlands, are you not?" she asked.  Tristan did not want to answer many questions, but Fenna ruled here and his sense of honor prevented him from denying her.

"I am," he confirmed.  Then he added, "I am a soldier in the service of King Bannock of Skaramor.  I was sent here by my lord commander, Murdoch of Byrnach."

"I see," said Fenna, nodding sagely.  "And why, may I ask, were you sent so far south?"

"That is a long story," the soldier responded.  "I do not know where to start."

"Start from the beginning.  I have time."

Tristan nodded, swallowed hard, and began.

"Since before I was born," he said, "the Northlands have been menaced by a horde from across the Eastern Sea.  They arrived more than a generation ago and started to carve out an empire, which they call Oskney.  They conquered and enslaved any clan they found, whether they resisted or not.  No beast really considered the Oskneyans a real threat until they overran Buckland.

"Buckland was a mountain kingdom south of Oskney, ruled by the hare king Firam.  When the Oskneyans attacked his realm, he believed that his army would be enough to stop them and did not bother to ask any other kings or chieftains for help.  After all, his people knew the mountains of their lands better than anyone.  They could wage a simple guerrilla war and that would be it: the Oskneyans would wish they had never set foot in Buckland.

"But it wasn't that simple.  The Oskneyans were too many; they shrugged off the attacks and kept pushing through the mountains until they reached Firam's castle and laid siege to it.  Buckland held out for a season before Firam's castle was taken and the Oskneyans claimed it for themselves.  Firam survived, but he and his family were forced to flee.

"It was about this time that my clan was conquered.  Most of us able to fight were killed, including my father.  For three seasons, I was a slave under an Oskneyan lord.  My little brother died…"  Tristan choked and moved on to the next part of his tale.  "I managed to escape with a fellow slave I worked with.  We were barely alive when we reached Skaramor, and as soon as we were able we enlisted in Skaramor's army.  We were a little young, but we had nowhere else to go and so Lord Murdoch took pity on us and took us in.  I became a scout, and my friend a regular.  It wasn't long before Skaramor came under attack as well.

"For four seasons we have fought against the Oskneyan king, Sigurd Blood-Tooth.  But it is a losing battle; it is all we can do to hold the enemy and keep them from pushing even further into Skaramor.  But that is not the worst part.

"There are other kingdoms in the Northlands, other clans capable of fighting the Oskneyans.  And yet they won't.  They're so blinded by ancient blood feuds and their own greed that they don't even see the enemy at their very gates!"  Tristan took a breath to calm his nerves.

"I see," mused Abbess Fenna.  "That is terrible indeed, but how has this brought you here?"

"I was just about to tell you," Tristan said as calmly as he could.  "The old stories tell of a warrior who fought against and defeated a slave lord and freed hundreds of oppressed beasts.  Everybeast knows his story; I grew up on it.  That warrior is the only beast admired by everybeast in the Northlands, and his name was Martin."

"Martin!" Fenna gasped.  "Great seasons!  Our abbey was founded by a warrior mouse named Martin!"

"That is why I am here," Tristan said gravely.  "In secret, Lord Murdoch sent a cadre of scouts south to find the abbey Martin founded and retrieve his sword.  With it in our grasp, we can unite the Northlands under one banner to fight the Oskneyans."

"You mean unite them under _Skaramor's_ banner," Fenna accused.

"Under Skaramor's banner or anyone else's; it makes no difference!" Tristan exploded, standing up suddenly.  "All that matters is that the Oskneyans are stopped and the slaves are freed!"  He breathed heavily, then sat down again once more.  "Forgive me," he said quietly, lowering his head in shame.  "I was acting out of anger and should not have raised my voice."

To his surprise, the abbess did not lose her temper but instead reached out and patted him on his paw.

"Do not fret, my child.  I had to make sure you were the one."

"The one what?" asked a confused Tristan, slowly looking up at the abbess.

"Martin's body may have left this world ages ago," Fenna explained, "but his spirit has always been here to protect Redwall in its time of need.  When crisis strikes, he chooses one special beast to take up his sword and defend the abbey.  But some nights ago, he came to me in a dream and told me that there would be another to wield his blade.  That one, however, would not defend Redwall.  Look at the tapestry, Tristan.  That is Martin's image up there; he is always here to watch over us." Tristan nodded, scarcely daring to believe where the abbess was going with this.

"Now," she said, "look above the tapestry.  See that sword?  That is the sword of Martin the Warrior.  It is the blade you are destined to wield!"


	3. Lord Murdoch

Lord Murdoch was not a happy wolf.  By rights he should have been wintering back home with his mate and children, not in Noonvale with a bunch of helpless farmers.  What made it more frustrating was that he had no say in the matter: his king had asked this of him, and he could not refuse his king.

In a way, he supposed, he was a victim of his own success.  Murdoch had always prided himself on having the best-trained soldiers in the Northlands.  He liked to boast that one of his fighters on the battlefield was worth three of anyone else's, and there was truth in that:  Murdoch's troops had once been outnumbered three-to-one and had emerged victorious.  So when the Patriarch of Noonvale had beseeched King Bannock for help in raising a militia, Murdoch was the first lord the king thought of to train Noonvale's defenders.

So here he was, languishing in the biting cold of the morning, waiting for the volunteers to assemble in the clearing just outside the village.  One hundred and thirteen beasts had volunteered, whether their bodies were strong or weak.  Not that it mattered, though.  By the end of the winter, each and every one of them would be in exemplary shape and ready for battle.

Murdoch gazed upon the Noonvalers, waiting for his captains to tell him that everybeast had arrived.  The volunteers were a sorry lot, chattering away amongst themselves about how exciting it was to be here and how the Oskneyans would be sorry they ever came near Noonvale.  A little bloodshed would quickly cure them of that attitude, Murdoch decided, and he knew just how he would achieve that.

One of his captains, a seasoned otter named Drog, came strolling up and said, "Everybeast's accounted for, my lord.  That's all of them right there."

"Good," Murdoch replied with a nod.  "Noo get thoos weaklins in lahn, twenty in each rank."

Drog spread the word, and in a moment all of Murdoch's trainers began yelling and pushing the volunteers into place.  More reason to have little confidence in them: they looked utterly bewildered at the unexpected orders and weren't sure what to do.  Most of them actually did fall in line, but many still stood around looking like idiots.  Getting atop a large, flat rock that served as a convenient substitute for a dais, Murdoch swiftly brought order to the clearing.

"FALL IN!" he roared.  His voice carried clearly through the chill morning air, striking every ear in the area like a hammer.  "Come on, noo!  Donnae just stand aroond lahk slow-headed babes!  Fall in lahn!"  It took less than a minute for the wolf lord's fearsome voice to instill some discipline in the volunteers and persuade them to organize themselves.  The soldiers took their places on the edges of the clearing, and all eyes turned to the figure standing on the rock.

Murdoch's crimson cloak billowed in a sudden gust of wind, making him look that much more impressive.  It was probably the first positive development all day.  Holding up his left paw so that his palm faced the volunteers, Murdoch drew a knife and, without flinching, dragged the blade across his palm.  Blood flowed down his paw in a thin curtain.  As if on cue, three of the volunteers fainted dead away and collapsed to the snow-covered ground.

"Get them oot of here," Murdoch commanded of his troops.  There was no need to point; his soldiers would know whom to take.  "When they wake up tell them their services are no' needed."

The wolf lord wiped the knife on his kilt, placed it back in its sheath, and took a small bandage to his paw, all without taking his eyes off of Noonvale's new militia.  By now enough time had passed for them to assimilate what had just happened, and brace themselves for what was to come.  He began to pace back and forth across the rock.  He wanted their undivided attention; it was important that they hear this speech.

"This is no' a damn GAME!" Murdoch shouted.  "This is a war!  Did ye think that it wid be fun?  Well it won't be!  There will be killing.  There will be blood.  And there will be a gret deal of it, for the Oskneyans _will_ come.  And they will be coming for the blood of Noonvale!"  Thus Murdoch completed the first step in the Noonvalers' orientation: disillusionment.  Now came the second step: re-illusionment.

"But they will not come here and find naught but helpless farmers and babes," Murdoch continued.  "They'll find warriors.  They'll find _you_.  And ye will tell them that Noonvale's sons and daughters are no' theirs tae murder and enslave.  You will tell them that there may come a day when your home is destroyed and driven into chains, but this is _no' that day_!"

Cheers exploded from the new militiabeasts.  No doubt some of them would take it in their minds that the second part of the speech as proof that the first part was a jest, but hopefully enough had taken in all of Murdoch's words and would take their training seriously.

The volunteers were divided into groups for the first part of their training, which consisted of learning how to march in formation and recognizing commands.  In time each of them would learn which part of the force they were best suited for: archers, pikes, or shields.  For now though, they needed to know the basics of military discipline.  This would take less than four days.  When that was finished, they undergo rigorous tests of endurance until each and every one of them had passed.

Next would be learning how to fight.  They would be sorted into new groups based on their potential for a certain division and number of beasts needed for that division, and drilled until they had reached the fullest extent of that potential.  The endurance tests would increase in difficulty and rigor, and by the first thaw they would be prepared to face any enemy.

Almost any enemy, at least.  They would receive the best training possible, but the fact still remained that there was only a little more than a hundred of them, and Oskneyans rarely attacked an enemy with a force less than a thousand.  If Sigurd Blood-Tooth decided Noonvale was worth attacking, the militia would fight very bravely and die very swiftly.  And none of Noonvale's neighbors would lift so much as a claw to help.

That was why it was so important that those scouts retrieve Martin's sword, if it still existed.  If the clans and kingdoms of the Northlands continued to bicker and squabble amongst themselves, Sigurd would simply pick them off one by one.  Unfortunately, Murdoch had no idea how his agents were faring in their quest.  They might already be dead, for all he knew.  If they did not return by next winter, the wolf lord would take half his force and go south to Mossflower.  And tear apart the countryside until he found the sword.

They took a break at midday for lunch, which consisted of warm stew and bread.  Once the volunteers were full and rested, their trainers took them for runs along paths through the woods.  They all ended up back at the clearing totally exhausted, and when they had taken another short rest they began marching again.  By the time the sun was beginning to set, they militia could march in step and recognize a few commands.  That was more progress than most recruits made on their first day; perhaps these farmers had what it took to be warriors after all.  When the Noonvalers were allowed to leave, they went home tired, hungry, and proud.

~~~~

Murdoch and his troops cooked their supper in lidded iron pots that were flat on the bottom so they could cook breads as well as stew.  The way an army fed itself in the evening was for the soldiers to gather into groups, sit around a cooking fire, and make their meals there.  The commander and captains were almost always in one group, and this meal was no exception.  Murdoch listened as supper cooked and the captains voiced their observations on the day.

"I think it went rather well," Drog said.  "They were a mite lost at the start, but when they got into the right mind, they pulled together very nicely."

"Och, did they noo?" interjected the hare captain Aonghas.  "The ones ah saw widna win a fight wi' a spitted bird."

"Give 'em tahm," Murdoch told him.  "We were all lahk that once."

"I sure wasn't," grumbled Jalryk, the last of the captains present for the winter.  He spat into the fire.  "These beasts have no respect for authority, I tells yer.  I can't count how many of them were givin' me dirty looks."

"They're not used to change, mate," Drog said with a shrug.  "It'll take a while for them to get used to ye."  He lifted the lid on the pot for a peek, careful to avoid touching the embers that sat on it which aided in the cooking process.  "Almost done."  He replaced the lid.  "So did anybeast see a potential leader for this outfit?"

"I think I did," Jalryk answered.  "This one mouse called Donnal.  The others showed him some respect; he's the beast wot got 'em ter listen ter me."

"Only tahm will tell who cen lead the militia," Murdoch stated.  "It's far too early noo."

"You're right," Drog sighed.  "It's just that I can hardly wait until we can go home.  Noonvale's said to be one of the nicest places to live in the Northlands and Voh won't even let us in the blasted place!"

"The Patriarch doesn't want us corruptin his beasts," Aonghas intoned in a mocking voice.  "He's afred tae let a warmongering attitude into his peaceful village; that we'll bully babes and ravish the females."

"Mahnd yaer tongue," Murdoch told the hare.  "His Majesty commanded me to train the militia and tha's wha' we'll do.  And ah chose you three tae come here because ah thought ye widna complain lahk spoiled brats!"

"My lord, it's not fair!" Jalryk interrupted.  "Just because we're fighters doesn't mean we're…villains…"  He trailed off and lowered his head.  

His words caused a silence to hang over the foursome like a dark cloud that spread to a few nearby beasts who overheard, creating a most disturbing atmosphere amidst the usual goodwill of evenings.  They had seen so much of war that the very idea of a place as peaceful as Noonvale seemed like a dream.  And although he was the Chieftain, Padraig Voh had no right to insult Murdoch and his beasts so.  Despite his insistence to the contrary, he was implying everything Aonghas said by denying the Skaramorians entrance into the village proper.  The only exception was Lord Murdoch himself, and only when the wolf was summoned.

Quietly, Drog looked at the contents of the heating pot.  Proclaiming the food fit to eat, he accepted the bowls his companions handed to him and scooped supper into each of them.  Supper tonight was a hearty vegetable stew with a salty-flavored bread topping.  Jalryk set about finding some whiskey, and in less than an hour Padraig Voh's slight was forgotten and the lord and captains were joking and laughing together.  All was again right with the world.

Having reached his limit on food and alcohol, Murdoch decided to turn in and suggested that his soldiers do the same so they could get a good start on the next day.  Not that there was any need for him to say anything; the cold would soon drive them all to their beds.  A brave and somewhat foolish few would try to stay up fraternize as long as they could, but their consciousness was likely to outlast their fires.

Whereas most soldiers huddled together in tents, lords had their own private sleeping quarters.  Upon pulling the blanket over him, Murdoch realized that this practice was not quite so practical in winter and resolved to sleep like the rest of his beasts the very next night and all through their time at Noonvale.  The sadistic cold kept the wolf lord awake for a good long while, keeping him from blissful slumber at all costs.  When finally he did sleep, he was visited by the most curious dream he had ever had.

Murdoch found himself standing on the coast, facing the Eastern Sea.  How he knew that it was the Eastern Sea instead of another was a mystery; somehow he just knew.  He turned around and beheld what had once been a mighty fortress.  Now, however, it was a burnt-out ruin with a mouse standing in its gateway.  With that mouse was a strangely familiar-looking squirrel holding a sword.  Curious, Murdoch walked over to these strangers to talk with them.  The mouse spoke before he did.

"My successor has found my sword.  Only he should wield it in battle; let no other beast use it."

The wolf glared and scoffed at the mouse's words.  Who was this upstart who presumed to instruct the Lord of Byrnach?  Unless…

"He is coming, Lord Murdoch," the mouse continued.  "Look for the sign of Redwall Abbey."

Now the wolf lord recognized the squirrel who held the sword, it came to him like a thunderbolt.  He was in that cadre of scouts he had sent south at the onset of winter.  They must have succeeded in their mission!  This was Martin the Warrior who was speaking to him, and this squirrel had been chosen to wield the sword!  Now—

"My lord."

"Hunh?"  Murdoch opened his eyes.  He was back in his tent.

"My lord Murdoch, they day has come."  A mouse soldier stood at the tent flap, calmly waiting for his lord commander to rise.

"Yes, thank you," the wolf responded groggily.  "You may leave noo."

The mouse bowed and left, closing the tent behind him.  Murdoch shook his head and rubbed his eyes, wishing with every ounce of his soul that his dream was a prophetic one.


	4. A New Beginning

If the abbey was excited when Tristan arrived, it was in hysterics when he turned out to be the next beast to wield the Sword of Martin.  All these happenings in two days: it was almost too much.  At supper, virtually all pairs of eyes were fixed firmly on the squirrel warrior as he delighted himself with the legendary abbey food.  It all tasted so good that Tristan found himself stuffed when it was over.

After the evening meal and cleanup, everybeast moved on to Cavern Hole where Tristan told the abbey dwellers about the war in the Northlands and why he had been sent south.  All were shocked when Abbess Fenna announced that Tristan would be taking the sword with him to the Northlands.  That the weapon that had defended Redwall for ages was being taken to a faraway land was unthinkable!  Despite the Abbess' assurances that this was for the best, many still protested the development and insisted that she must have been mistaken somehow.  Tristan, acting quickly, promised that he would come back one day to return the sword to its rightful resting place.  This pacified the abbeybests somewhat, although many doubted whether the squirrel would make good on that promise.

He entertained them with stories of his battles against the Oskneyans as well as raids to free slaves held in enemy camps.  When he ran out of those, he moved on to Northlander folk tales.  At his hosts' insistence, he attempted to sing, but his voice was so hideously off-key that Abbess Fenna stopped him and gently suggested that the songs he knew might be better related as poems.  So he spoke the lyrics instead, evoking scenes of beauty and images of heroes from long ago with some very elegant words.

The legend of Martin drew the most attention, however.  Although Tristan did not know the entire story by heart, he remembered enough to tell a decent tale: he told them of Badrang the Tyrant, of how Martin escaped the shackles of slavery, and how he encountered many adventures in his quest to regain his father's sword.  It ended with a retelling of the last battle against Badrang, and how Martin defeated the slave lord but lost his beloved in the battle.  There was not a dry eye in Cavern Hole when Tristan reached that last part.  The merriment continued well into the night, until nobeast could stay awake any longer and they all trudged off to bed.

~~~~

The sun rose into a clear sky the next morning.  With its rays of light shining directly into her eyes through the window, Shilly was unable to go back to sleep once she had woken.  The young squirrelmaid walked dazedly to her window with her blanket in paw.  Before she could throw the coverlet up to block the sun, however, she saw a figure standing on the wall tops swinging a sword.  It was Tristan, of course.  He performed a complex routine of nine moves with the blade, once, twice, then in reverse before tossing the sword deftly to his other paw and repeating the exercise.

Shilly watched him until the sun blinded her and made it impossible to see what Tristan was doing.  Placing the blanket over the window, she flopped back onto bed thinking about him.  From his descriptions of the state of the Northlands, it sounded like it was the most dangerous place in the world: robbers on the roads, entire areas of the countryside drowned in battle, and slavers ready to descend on a beast's home at any moment.  And Tristan was going back up there all alone.

The blanket slid off of the window, letting sunlight pierce Shilly's eyes again.  Sighing resignedly, the squirrelmaid gave up on getting any more sleep that morning, and dressed and left her room.  Redwall was totally quiet.  Since there was virtually no work that needed to be done this late in winter, everybeast roused and went to bed whenever the notion took them.  The only exceptions were Brother Chulain, who liked to wake up early to exercise, and Abbess Fenna, who felt it was her responsibility to be the first beast up in the morning.  Barney the cook was often among the next few to awaken, as it was his duty to prepare breakfast.

Shilly tread quietly through the halls of the dormitory building, not wanting to disturb anybeast—yet, she had some mischief planned for the day but was afraid if she did it now and woke everbeast up, her inevitable punishment would be more severe.  Brother Chulain was just outside the door, finishing his stretches in preparation of his exercise regimen.  A fresh blanket of snow covered the ground, seeming to glow in the new sun's light and causing Shilly to put a paw to her eyes.

"Mornin', Miss Shilly," the hedgehog greeted her amiably.  "What're you doin' up so early?"

The squirrelmaid shrugged.  "I couldn't sleep; the sun kept shining in my eyes.  I think I saw Tristan out here, have you seen him?"

"Oh aye," Chulain replied.  "Saw him practicin' with the sword up on the wall tops.  He was on the east wall, last I saw o' him."

"Thank you, Brother."  Shilly waded through the snow towards the east wall while Chulain started jogging in the other direction.

Tristan was still practicing when she reached the stairs to the wall top.  The wall steps were a little treacherous with new snow on them, and at one point near the top she slipped and let out a startled yelp.  Tristan jumped and turned around suddenly, relieved to remember that he was in a safe place.  He took a break to help the squirrelmaid up the rest of the steps.

"Thank you," Shilly muttered, embarrassed.

"You're welcome," Tristan responded as he helped her to the top.  "Do you usually get up this early?"

"Oh no.  But the sun was coming right into my eyes, so I couldn't go back to sleep."

"I see.  Well, the only thing you'll see up here is me and my exercises, so there's no real point to staying around."

"Actually," Shilly replied a little hesitantly, "I was hoping we could talk a little.  You can take a break, can't you?  I mean, you look like you could use one."

Tristan thought for a moment.  He did feel fairly tired and he was breathing hard—he had not quite recovered from his ordeal on the road.  "I suppose," he said, not wanting to sound too eager.  Shilly sat down and let her footpaws dangle off the edge of the wall.  She patted on the space next to her.  Tristan obliged and sat down beside her.

"So why are you up so early in the morning?" Shilly asked.

Tristan shrugged.  "I've never used a sword much.  I know the basics of the technique, but I'm a lot better with a spear.  I thought that if I'm destined to have this blade I might as well get used to fighting with it."

"But why so early?"

"Oh, I'm used to waking up early.  Something I've learned as a scout."

Shilly was quiet for a moment.  "What's it like to fight a war?" she asked.

Tristan leaned his head back in thought before answering.  "Most of it is just marching around waiting for something to happen," he began.  "As a scout, it's my job to find enemy forces and report their location to my commander or any other friendly forces I find.  Sometimes my unit and I will be called upon to take part in a large-scale engagement, you know, just some hit-and-run attacks to sow some confusion at enemy ranks.  We don't have to do much harm, just give them a quick sting and get out."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Not as much as you might think.  My unit and I hardly ever lost anyone in those attacks."

"Wait," Shilly interrupted.  "Your unit?  There are more of you?"

"There was."  Tristan's demeanor grew melancholy.  "I don't know how, but the Oskneyans found out about our mission."

"Breakfast's ready!" Chulain's voice called out.  "Come and get it while it's hot!"

"Why don't I tell you about it over breakfast?" Tristan suggested to Shilly.  The squirrelmaid liked that idea, and so they set off for the kitchens.

Barney had prepared porridge with strawberries and blackberries for the morning meal.  As he, Chulain, Tristan, and Shilly took their meal in the Great Hall, other Redwallers arrived one by one to start their day.  Most of them gathered around Tristan and listened intently as he told his tale.

"The rules of war are simple," he began.  "Fight in the summer, rest in the winter: the snow makes marching an army too difficult to bother.  My unit arrived in Byrnach ready to take a nice long break from scouting and fighting.  Before we settled in, however, Lord Murdoch approached us and asked if we were willing to embark on a mission.  When our captain asked him what he had in mind, Murdoch said that, if we accepted, we would go south to find the sword of Martin the Warrior.  That we had been chosen for this honor was almost beyond belief.  We accepted and left as soon as we could.  We had heard from travelers that the sword rested in Redwall Abbey.

"With that knowledge, we traveled as fast as we could, avoiding enemy forces like the plague—not that we had to try very hard; most Oskneyan warriors had gone home for the winter.  I don't know how they found out, but the Oskneyans somehow got wind of our intent and set a trap for us.  One day, from out of nowhere, we heard Oskneyan war cries approaching quickly.  They came over a hill, fully armed and running right at us.  We would have stayed to fight them, but we were too few and too lightly armed: we didn't have a chance.

"Instead, we made for a nearby copse of trees to shake them off our tails.  But there were more of them waiting for us there; the first of us to reach the trees were cut down in moments, including our captain.  The archers and slingers with us fired away at the first group of enemies while the rest tried to break through the ones in the trees.  In the end, all we could do was to try to take down as many Oskneyans as we could before we died."  Tristan closed his eyes and swallowed hard.  "They cut us to pieces.  I took a glancing axe to the chest and went down, striking my head on a rock.  That's the last thing I remember.  When I came to, everyone in my unit was dead."

"That's terrible," Chulain remarked sadly.

"It's war," Tristan replied with a shrug.  "I've lost friends before, just…never so many at once.  But I'm here now, and I know my comrades did not die for nothing.  I learned long ago that you need to find the good in life wherever you can."

"That is profound," Barney intoned, getting up from the table and heading for the kitchens.  "Well, don't worry about a thing.  You'll find plenty of goodness during your stay here, and when spring comes, you'll go back home a hero."

"I don't plan on waiting for spring," Tristan told the volecook.  "Hopefully, I'll be able to leave tomorrow."

"Oh no you don't!"  Sister Martha appeared in the doorway looking sternly at the squirrel.  "You were half dead when you got here.  I'll not have you traipsing off into the cold all alone in your condition.  Look at you, you could stand in the same place twice and not make a shadow!"

"Sister, perhaps you should get some breakfast in you before you lose your temper," Barney said, handing the infirmary keeper a steaming bowl of porridge.

"Really, Sister Martha," Tristan assured her, "there's no need to get upset.  I've been in worse condition before."

"Oh really."  Martha downed a spoonful of porridge.  "Like what?"

"Well, there was the time I, uh…"  Tristan trailed off.  "Um, I once…"  He trailed off again.  "Just take my word for it, okay?"

"No."

"He seems fine to me," Shilly piped up.  "I mean, if he's well enough to practice his swordplay—"

"What."

"Sister Martha, please…" Tristan pleaded.

 "You.  Need.  Rest."  The infirmary keeper emphasized each word.

"Just indulge her," Chulain recommended to Tristan.  "You're not likely to win a battle of wills with her anyway."

"Very well," the squirrel sighed resignedly.  "I won't do anything strenuous until you say so."  Sister Martha gave a short, satisfied nod and left him alone for the time being.

"If'n you think she's bad," Chulain murmured to Tristan so that nobeast else could hear, "you should've seen her predecessor.  She was a right old battle-axe, that 'un.  I first came here in shape almost as bad as your own and I wasn't allowed to leave my bed for three days straight!"  They shared a small chuckle.

It seemed that, for now, the abbeybeasts had forgotten about Tristan's intent to take away Martin's Sword.  They would doubtless remember when it came time for him to leave.  There was nothing the squirrel soldier could do about it except hope that they would believe his promise to return the weapon someday.  In truth, though, Tristan wasn't sure he believed it himself.


	5. Trials and Triumphs

Murdoch was pleased with the militia's progress.  In the space of a few days, they had learned the discipline they would need to be a proper fighting unit.  Very soon now they would divide into their chosen divisions and begin combat training.  They might even start tomorrow.  For now, however, they needed to get through the latest endurance tests.  The wolf lord strode through the ranks of militiabeasts as they endured a set of push-ups—exercises so called because the beast performing them would lie face-down on the ground and push himself up with his arms.  Aonghas was conducting them with his strong, clear voice.

"Up!  ...Doon!  Up!  …Doon!  Up!  …UP!"

Now somebeast was starting to flag.  Whenever Aonghas said "up" more than once, it meant that not everybeast had pushed himself up yet.  Murdoch scanned the crowd, looking for the offending recruit and thinking about what he would do to the beast.

"Doon!" Aonghas shouted.  So the weakling had managed to get up after all.  Small matter, the next command would reveal him.

"Up!" the hare commanded.  Murdoch spotted the beast who was having trouble almost immediately.  It was none other than Donnal, the mouse who showed so much potential to be the militia's commander.  He was gritting his teeth and groaning as he struggled to raise himself, showing far more fatigue than anybeast around him.  Perhaps he had less potential than at first thought.  The wolf lord marched straight over to the mouse with daggers coming from his eyes.

"Is there a problem?" he asked in a none-too-kind tone.

"Can't…get…up…" Donnal grunted.  Murdoch bent low and seized the mouse by the scruff of his neck.

"Ah'm no' here tae listen tae yaer whahnin'," he growled in Donnal's ear.  "Ah'm here tae make sure ye have what it takes tae steh alahve when the Oskneyans come for ye.  Noo, save the dramatics for yaer mother and _push_."

With a huge groan of effort, Donnal inched himself up off the ground and raised his body.  Slowly, little by little, his arms found the strength to continue.  By the time he reached the full extent of his arms, the mouse's groan had become a strangled, determined scream.

"Doon!" Aonghas said at last.

Donnal collapsed to the cold ground utterly exhausted and breathing heavily.  Murdoch gave Aonghas a nod of his head.

"All right, ye lettle weaklins," the hare captain announced, "git yaer carcasses off the groond and tek a break."

Murdoch patted Donnal on the head.  "Tha'll do, lad," he said almost affectionately.  "Tha'll do."

~~~~

Two weeks came and went.  With each passing day, Tristan regained some of his former strength and his wound healed a little more.  Sister Martha monitored his progress carefully, noting any change that appeared.  A beast of his word, Tristan did not do anything that caused very much physical stress and relaxed during his stay at Redwall.  Or rather, he tried to relax.  Always in the back of his mind was the knowledge that, when the snow melted, the Oskneyans would continue their offensive against Skaramor.  If he did not deliver the sword by then, it would be much more difficult for word of his success to reach the other kingdoms and therefore more difficult to convince them to unite against their common foe.

There was little to do in winter at Redwall save eat, sleep, and tell stories.  The only event that merited a great deal of excitement was the Winter Games, a festival of athletic competition for anybeast brave enough—or foolish enough—to brave the cold.  Chulain would compete, as would most of the otters and a few of the moles.  Tristan's hopes of joining them seemed unlikely to be fulfilled because of his condition, but he was determined to contribute somehow.  After much thought on the matter, he told the abbey dwellers of a popular sport in the Northlands called the Caber Toss.  In it, a beast took a huge pole (called a caber), got a running start, and then tossed the pole end over end as far as he could.  Many of the participants liked the idea, and it was eagerly moved into the schedule.

On the morning of the Winter Games, the athletes woke up early to get a fresh start.  Sister Martha pronounced Tristan healthy enough to compete, and he immediately dashed down from the infirmary to the courtyard where the games would take place, giving quick greetings to the beasts who would watch the games from inside.  The cold slapped him in the face like a spiked flail as he charged out the door.  The day was unusually, bitterly frigid, but that didn't stop any of the beasts competing in the games.  Preparations had been completed, and the athletes had gathered together to shoot the breeze until the day began.  They greeted Tristan indifferently, congratulating him on having made a full recovery with little sincerity.  Yooch was there too; he and Chulain seemed to be the only beasts who showed any warmth in their words.

"Good to see yer, mate," Skipper of the otters said.  "There looks to be a storm off on the horizon, so we may not be able to finish all the games."

"Oh, that's all right," Tristan returned.  "We'll just have to make sure we do everything while the sky's clear."

"Well, that's the idea.  We can get started as soon as Abbess Fenna shows up.  Ah, here she is now."

The door to the Great Hall opened, and out trundled the abbess, swathed in enough cloaks and cloth to stop a speeding arrow.  Her face was barely visible under a heavy scarf that muffled her voice, and her paws and tail were out of sight completely.  A few sniggers wandered through the crowd of athletes at her appearance.

"Morning, Mother Abbess—er, that is you, ain't it?"

"Oh, stow it, you hooligans," Fenna retorted.  "Not everybeast enjoys freezing to death, you know."  She cleared her throat.  "Now then, it is my pleasure—"

"Um, Mother Abbess?" Chulain broke in.  "Forgive me for interruptin', but it's a mite hard to hear you with that scarf on."  More sniggers.  Fenna grumbled unintelligibly and a paw appeared to pull the offending garment away from her mouth.

"There, is that better?  Good.  As I was saying, it is my pleasure to announce the start of the new Winter Games!  Yes, hooray.  Now, the first event will be the Wall Top Race, which Foremole Hurm will referee.  Remember, nobeast may touch any of the other participants during the race; tripping is not allowed.  Remember, I'll be watching.  The first to complete one lap around the walls—starting and ending from where Foremole Hurm is standing over the main gate—will be declared the winner and be the first to receive a drink of hot cider."  A wave of cheers met this announcement.  "Does everybeast understand?  Are there any questions?  Very good then.  Runners, take your marks!"

Foremole Hurm had already swept the snow off of the walkway; it was ready to be run on.  Tristan was able to get in the second of four ranks of racers—not a bad position, but he would need to put on a large burst of speed to get an early lead.  He was a fast runner to begin with, and this time he didn't have all that war gear to carry.  His chances of victory seemed reasonable, but he had a plan for improving them.

"On yurr marks," Hurm announced.  "Get set… GO!"  The runners took off like so many arrows, flying across the wall as fast as their legs could carry them.  Tristan quickly ended up as one of the first three beasts in front, tied with Skipper and an otter named Hywel.  As they rounded the first corner, Hywel took a narrow lead, with Tristan and Skipper gradually falling behind.

The squirrel discreetly made his way to the inner edge of the wall in preparation of his cunning trick.  He maintained his position in the pack until the second corner was reached.  Before Hywel could round the turn, Tristan leapt from one section of the wall to the next.

"Haha," he laughed.  "Sorry, lads—oh, bloody hell."  His footpaws had landed precariously on the absolute edge of the wall when a sudden burst of wind erupted from out of nowhere.  He stumbled for a heartbeat and toppled over the side.  The horrified gasps and shouts of the onlookers watching from the abbey windows were clearly heard as Tristan barely managed to catch himself with one paw clinging to the wall.  The other racers rushed by, preventing him from pulling himself up until they had all passed by.  Hywel took first place, and an embarrassed Tristan, unable to recover from his stumble, finished last.  Foremole Hurm eyed the squirrel critically.

"That's what you'm get for bein' a cheater," he said curtly—almost coldly, and strode off down the wall steps without so much as looking back.  Out of breath, Tristan doubled over and mentally kicked himself for attempting something so foolish.  He had seen countless beasts killed because of foolishness, why did he even think about doing something like that?  And for that matter, why did the Foremole need to rub it in?

Ah, yes.  The sword.  Before, the time when Tristan would take away the abbey's treasure seemed very far-off.  Now that he was well enough to travel again, that time was close and very much in the fore of the abbeybeasts' minds.  No matter, in a few days Tristan would be gone from here and out on the cold, lonely road again.  He dragged himself down the wall steps to face the rest of his challenges.

The next event was the Caber Toss.  Tristan had helped locate poles that were suitable for the event.  When none had been found around the abbey, the search party went out into the woods and cut logs of the appropriate length and width from trees.  Again, Tristan had an advantage; he had played this sport before and was familiar with the subtleties of it.

Only a few of the otters and moles were able to get their logs to flip even once.  Rubbing his paws in anticipation, Tristan made his turn count.  Knowing exactly how to toss a caber, he ran at a steadily increasing pace, shifted the caber so it leaned at the proper angle, and got the pole to flip twice over end.  It was the farthest toss so far and was followed by a smattering of applause as Tristan raised his paws in triumph.  A toss of two flips was considered to be a very fine toss in the Northlands.  Tristan could have sworn he heard Shilly cheering from within the Great Hall.

Chulain took his turn next, and he immediately put the squirrel to shame.  The gatekeeper had very carefully watched what Tristan did and emulated his actions.  He ran at a steadily increasing pace, and then when he reached the toss line launched the pole at precisely the same angle Tristan used.  The burly hedgehog's caber flipped once, twice, then _three_ times and landed well past the spot where Tristan's caber did, earning him wild applause and cheering from all present.  Very few beasts could get a caber to flip three times; even Lord Murdoch had only done it once or twice.  It was an achievement more than worthy of a good mug of hot cider.

"Well done, Brother Chulain!" Abbess Fenna exclaimed.  "I think that's the winning toss right there!"

"Oh, thank you, marm," Chulain said bashfully.  "It's not really too hard; you just got to watch an expert do it."

"Well it was an excellent toss in any way," she told him.  "Now then, who's next?"  Nobeast stepped forward; the odds of one of them besting Chulain's results were very slim indeed.  "Nobeast?  Very well then, I guess this event is over and Brother Chulain is the winner!"

There was more cheering at this announcement as the athletes congratulated the big hedgehog.  Tristan joined in with the congratulations, but not the cheering.  He didn't know why, but he absolutely _needed_ to win one of these events.  Maybe part of him thought that such a victory would lessen Redwall's ire.  Maybe it was just his natural competitive spirit.  Whatever the reason, however, the squirrel was bound and determined to win the next game, whatever it was.

"Let us proceed to the next event," Abbess Fenna proclaimed.  "On now, everybeast, to the Quarterstaff Tournament…"

Tristan's hopes flew to the sky as he heard these words.  Spears and quarterstaffs had very similar techniques, and he had been fighting with a spear for a very long time.  If there was one game all day in which he would be the favorite, this was it.  He was at the front of the group that made its way to where the tournament would take place, his body shaking in anticipation.

"Here are the rules," Fenna announced when they had arrived at a log that had been elevated off of the snowy ground by two large rocks.  "Two beasts will fights at a time.  The first to touch the ground with either his paws or staff loses, and the winner will advance.  You may only touch your opponent with your staff, and hitting in the head is illegal.  Wait for my word before you begin.  Any questions?  Very good then, let's get started.  The pairings have been decided at random, and the first match shall be between Foremole Hurm and Tristan."

Oh, this was perfect.  The mole's slight at the end of the wall top race would be avenged sooner than Tristan had hoped.  The two combatants took their places at opposite ends of the log and were handed their staffs.  As the crowd of onlookers folded their arms and ran in place to ward off the intense cold, they broke into shouts of encouragement:

"Go get 'im, mate!"

"Come on, Hurm, you can do it!"

"Oi'd wager a troifle h'against the skurrel!"

Of course they would take the foremole's side.  Tristan blew these comments off and took a fighting stance, paws apart with the staff held like a spear.  This would be over very quickly.

"Get ready," the abbess said in a tense voice.  "And…GO!"

Hurm never would have guessed that Tristan would be able to move so fast.  The squirrel let loose a ferocious war cry and lunged before the foremole had a chance to react.  His stomach was pummeled with a series of thrusts, causing him to double over and step backwards.  He swung wildly to parry the furious assault, failing each time.  Now Tristan was striking him all over, in the leg, chest, shoulder—everywhere but his head.  Each blow drove Hurm further back, until his heels felt nothing behind him and he stumbled.  Tristan had driven his enemy to the end of the log.

The foremole desperately flailed his arms and bent his body this way and that to maintain his balance and stay on the log.  Calmly, and with an air of victory, Tristan reached out with his staff and lightly tapped Hurm on his chest.  The hapless mole gave a despairing cry and crashed into the snow-covered ground.  The entire match took less time to occur than to describe it.

"Tristan is the winner," Fenna announced.  Although she seemed less excited than shocked at the display the squirrel warrior had put on.  She had never seen anything like it, not in all her seasons.

"Who's going next?" Chulain inquired.

"Hm?"  The abbess blinked and woke from her thoughts.  "Oh, yes.  Yooch and Hywel, take your places…"

The rest of the round's matches were not quite as exciting as the first.  Yooch struggled valiantly, but ultimately fell in his first fight.  Tristan helped to console the mole, talking of his experiences during his training and all the mistakes he made back then.  All the while, though, he was keeping an eye on the proceedings of the tournament, carefully watching the tactics of each combatant.  Every move was noted, each athlete's style coming to light in a series of whacks and steps.

In his next three matches, Tristan emerged victorious after only a moment.  Beasts were flung to the ground like sacks of potatoes as the squirrel cheerfully displayed his superior fighting skills again and again.  Chulain was not to be ignored, either.  The gatekeeper used his sheer brute strength to overwhelm all who stood against him.  The otters and moles did what they could, but the smart vittles were on either the squirrel or hedgehog.  It wasn't long before the pair faced off in the final match.

"Right now, this match is for the championship of the tournament and the first mug of apple cider," Abbess Fenna said.  Tristan and Chulain eyed each other hungrily as they struck fighting stances, waiting eagerly for the abbess to give the word.  "Let's see some good sportsbeastship, you two.  Get ready, and…GO!"

The combatants charged at each other and clashed their staffs together before Fenna had finished saying the last word.  Tristan thrust as he had done in his previous matches.  Anticipating this move, Chulain parried skillfully and hit the squirrel hard in the side of his chest.  Tristan leapt back as Chulain's mighty follow-up blow cut through the air in front of him.  He immediately recognized the glint in Chulain's eyes: it was the killing instinct.  Apparently the abbey's gatekeeper had been a warrior once.  Chulain shifted his grip on the staff and held it like a sword; Tristan's thrust strategy would not work this time.  He opted to wait for Chulain to make the next move.

The hedgehog advanced and swung horizontally.  Tristan ducked the attack and shuffled swiftly forward to land a harsh blow on the knee of his opponent's forward leg.  He brought his staff up just in time to block Chulain's brutal downward chop.  The staffs connected so hard it was amazing they didn't break.  Tristan scurried back and prepared to meet the next attack.

With his knee aching, Chulain shifted his weight to his back leg and waited for Tristan to move.  Realizing that he would have to attack, Tristan faked a low thrust.  Chulain swung his staff to parry the attack but stopped when Tristan drew back.  The hedgehog was too good; Tristan had another plan in mind but it was risky.  Yelling wildly, he lunged and thrust hard and high.  Chulain parried, but the squirrel kept advancing and forced Chulain to take a step back.  Onto his aching knee.

The burly hedgehog grunted and, with a paw at either end of his staff, drove the middle of his weapon into Tristan's stomach.  The squirrel felt air whoosh out of his lungs, but he still had some breath in them; he wasn't finished yet.  He saw that Chulain was wobbling and attempted to move in for the finishing blow.  Quarterstaffs clashed quickly and repeatedly as Tristan struck out high, low, and in-between and Chulain deftly blocked each attack.

Chulain grunted again as Tristan's staff found his side and was forced into a sideways-leaning position.  Tristan swung again, this time aiming for the hedgehog's other side.  Chulain blocked it, but the damage had been done: the force of the attack was enough to knock Chulain off his balance and, consequently, off the log.  The gatekeeper stumbled footpaw-first onto the ground.

"And the victory goes to Tristan!" Fenna exclaimed.  Before she had even finished the sentence, however, the squirrel in question collapsed off of the log and into the snow, cradling his aching stomach.

"Well done, mate," Chulain said, helping Tristan to his footpaws.  "'Twas the best exercise I've had in a long time.  …Are you gonna be alright?"

"Thank you," the squirrel grunted.  "And yes, I just need to walk it off.  Not sure I'll be able to keep down that cider though."

"Storm's comin'!" Skipper shouted.  He peered at the western sky, noting the approaching dark clouds.  "It's almost on us; we might have to call of the rest of the games."  There were moans of disappointment.

"I know how much you all want to continue," Fenna told the athletes, taking her own look at the sky, "but from the looks of that storm, you might not be able to see each other in it.  And I certainly won't stand around in any blizzard.  Come on now, everybeast inside!"

They all trudged in as the first of the blizzard's snowflakes began to fall.  Chulain and Yooch helped Tristan lurch back to the Great Hall, where Shilly greeted him with wonderful praises of his strength and courage.  Tristan recalled seeing some of the captains getting similar receptions when they returned home from battle and wondered if he might…no, if the abbess found out she'd have the otters hunt him to the ends of the earth.

"Oi think ee shudd have Zister Murtha look at yurr stummick," Yooch suggested quietly.  "Ee moight have to stay a whoile longer, ho urr."

"Thank you, Yooch," Tristan replied.  "But judging from the events of today, I think it would be best if I left Redwall as soon as possible."


	6. A Cold Day

Just like every other day, this one started off cold.  It would stay cold all day until the sun set, and then it would get even colder.  Jalryk did not complain, at least not out loud—he had endured far worse when he had been a slave.  At least this time he would not be forced under the lash to dig or build anything.  No, today everybeast got to take a break, recruits and trainers alike.  Today was the day that Lord Murdoch was to make his report on the militia's progress to the elders of Noonvale.

The pancakes hissed and sizzled lazily on their griddle while Jalryk watched over them with a spatula in his paw and a cloak wrapped tightly about his shoulders.  He waited until the bubbles on the edges of the pancakes stopped appearing, then one by one slid the spatula's blade under each pancake and deftly flipped them onto their other side.  Each pancake was perfectly golden-brown, bringing a grin to the captain's face.  It took a long time to master the art of pancake-cooking, and it seemed that he had done just that.

A great yawn broke the stillness of the still-sleeping camp.  Jalryk looked toward the source of the noise and saw Drog stretching just about every muscle he could, standing in front of an open tent flap.  The otter stumbled through the snow toward where Jalryk was making his breakfast, still in the process of waking up.  Like a shambling zombie he made his way instinctively to the cooking fire and sat himself down on a nearby rock.

"Mornin'," Drog said.  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around.  "Bly me, would you look at this camp?  Soldiers are s'posed to be light sleepers but we're the only beasts up!"

Jalryk scanned the camp with a curious gaze.  Drog had spoken the truth; every tent in sight was closed up and not one other beast besides the two captains was outside.  The sun shone brightly on a new and unspoiled blanket of snow.

"No, they're awake all right," Jalryk determined.  "But we got a day off today an' those beasts don't want ter go out in the cold.  They want ter stay in the tents, where it's nice and warm."

Aonghas' voice could suddenly be heard coming from the captains' tent, rattling off an assortment of curse words and condemning to an eternity of hellfire anything he could think of to be upset with.  The hare's paw emerged from the tent's opening and yanked the flap shut while his voice said something that sounded like "bloody otter."  There followed the sound of a body flopping down onto a cot, and then all went quiet again.

"There, y'see?" Jalryk said, gesturing to the tent with his spatula.

"Huh, you're right.  I've got 'alf a mind to back in there if'n it weren't fer Aonghas' kickin'."

"Wot, does Aonghas got that 'abit?"

"Damn right 'e does.  It's a wonder I don't got bruises all over my body."

"Well you have my condolences, friend.  Me, I got a nice warm wolf ter sleep next ter."

"I'm not going to go into the implications of those words," Drog answered.  He rubbed another eye and looked at the pancakes.  "Aren't those pancakes done, mate?"

"What—agh!"  Jalryk panicked and flipped the pancakes, revealing a very black, overcooked set of breakfast.  "Damn it," he grumbled and slid them onto a waiting serving plate.

"Oh, that's all right," Drog assured his friend casually.  "We can give 'em to Aonghas, that hare'll eat anything.  So I reckon Lord Murdoch has already left?"

"Yeah, off ter git interrogated by a bunch of greybeard farmers," Jalryk replied as he stirred a bowl of pancake batter with a ladle.  "It don't seem right, 'Is Lordship takin' orders from those beasts."

"Well His Majesty told him to respect their wishes," Drog pointed out.  "So if'n ye think of it that way, Murdoch's really takin' orders from him."

Jalryk snorted and ladled out a new batch of pancakes onto the griddle.  When he was finished, he put the ladle back and in a trance set the bowl of batter aside.

"I just realized somethin'," he said, staring at the fire.  "These beasts we're trainin' don't know a damn thing about war or blodshed.  And tomorer we're gonna teach them 'ow ter kill another beast."

Drog was suddenly very quiet as he took in his friend's words.  "I know, mate," he said.  "I know."

~~~~

They came from out of their huts into the biting cold and gathered in awed silence to watch as he was led into the village by an old mole.  Save for the crunching of footpaws in the snow, no sound was made.  Everybeast was too surprised by his appearance to make one.  The one the Noonvalers had heard so much of—the beast who killed an Oskneyan lord with his bare paws, who fought off scores of enemies alone, whose ancestor had slain an eagle—looked about as civilized as a beast could get.  His kilt and shirt were clean and neat, his crimson cape flowing majestically behind him as he strode past.  Murdoch looked every inch like a true lord.

Drog had met a young ottermaid out in the woods the other day.  The captain had given his lord a letter to give the lass and a description to find her.  Murdoch had not read the letter, but he had a pretty good idea of what it contained.  He spotted an ottermaid who matched Drog's description at the front of the crowd, wringing her paws in anticipation.  Carefully, the wolf lord altered his path so that he did not arouse suspicion and slipped the ottermaid the note.  She accepted it and hid it in her clothing.  Neither one had looked at the parchment during the transaction, which had taken place in less than a heartbeat.

Murdoch's guide took him swiftly through the village, not stopping for anything and telling anybeast in their path to make way.  Nobeast argued with him, the stories the militiabeasts had heard of the wolf lord had reached their ears with—of course—a certain amount of exaggeration.  They were afraid of him, and for no other reason than that he had been on a battlefield before.

It was on the way to the Chieftain's that Murdoch saw the largest oak he had ever seen.  There were several holes around it, and axe marks were all over the lower part of its trunk.  Somebeast had clearly been trying to fell it.

"Having a problem with that oak?" the wolf lord inquired of his guide.

"Hurr, that gurt monster," the mole responded.  "We'm been troying to fell that tree fur a long toime, but it waon't go daown.  Oi and sum of the h'other moles went at it fur a whole day once, but its roots go daown furrever.  Course, naow the graond be too 'ard 'n' frozed to do anything."

"Mah lads cid have it doon less than half a day," Murdoch remarked.

The guide did not respond to this.  He just kept moving at a steady pace, leading Murdoch past the houses and stares of the Noonvalers.  They came upon the meeting place Padraig Voh had chosen.  It was the council's meeting hall, a stone-and-straw hut large enough for all of the elders in the village to gather and discuss matters of importance.  Murdoch could only guess how rarely they met in a place as small and secluded as Noonvale.  But that was not why he was here.

Padraig Voh was a mouse who had already seen most of his seasons.  He was dressed in a faded green robe, which was tied at the waist by a white sash.  He had many of the village's elders with him, a handful of old beasts who looked ready to pass on at any moment.  Then again, if they weren't old, they wouldn't be elders, would they?  Murdoch was received by tolerant looks from the lot of them as they sat around a large table where the guide took his place.

"Greetings, Lord Murdoch," Voh intoned as the wolf entered the meeting place.  "Please, have a seat."

Murdoch thanked the chieftain and took his seat across from him.  There were no chairs in Noonvale large enough for a wolf, so he had to make do with a smaller, slightly uncomfortable one.  He folded his paws together on the table and submitted himself to the interrogation.

"I take it that our defenders are progressing well in their training," Voh began.

"They are progressing superbly," Murdoch replied.  "They're the most promising recruits ah've seen in a long tahme."

"Are they now?"

"Most certainly, Chieftain.  They took to the basics lahk ducks tae water, and their paerformances in the endurance tests were surprising, tae say the least.  We'll begin combat training taemorrow."  Murdoch noticed the uneasy looks of the elders, including Voh.

"I see," the old mouse said.  "Could you describe to us what that will entail?"

"O' course," the wolf answered easily.  "The recruits will be tested tae see what part of the militia each of them wid do best in: archers or shields.  Most forces have pahkes as well, but here thoos are oot o' the question; the militia's far too small.  Pahkes, ye see, are used to finish off a weakened enemy or break their defense.  Besahdes, ye'll want a defensive unit, rather than an offensive one.  Am ah correct?"

"Yes," Voh replied.  "Yes, you're right."

"How long will combat training take?" asked one of the other elders.

"The militia will be ready tae faht afore the winter's gone.  Mind ye, they will no' be truly ready for battle until they get a little blood on their paws."  The elders broke out into anxious murmurs at these words.  Perhaps Murdoch had said the wrong thing?

Voh called for silence among the elders, who quickly complied.  "We are peaceful beasts," he said gravely.  "I do not expect that the militiabeasts will 'get a little blood on their paws,' as you put it, anytime soon."

Murdoch shrugged indifferently.  "Ah widna expect 'em too.  But that's the simple truth; yae're more lahkly tae survahve a battle if ye've already survahved one."

"We will move on from this," Voh decided firmly.  "Now then, Lord Murdoch, do you anticipate any future problems with the militia's training?"

"No.  But there's always something ye dunnae see coming.  Ah made sure mah lads and ah were well-prepared for this task, though, so even if there is a problem we should be able tae handle it."

"So the recruits are not showing any problems with taking orders?"

"Did ah no' just say they took tae the basics well?  They have every bit o discipline they'll need tae become soldiers, they've had no problems wi' taking orders."

"Yes, of course."  Voh sat back in his chair and tried to think of more questions.  Just what was he trying to do?

"Is there anything else you would like to comment upon?" asked an old squirrel.

"Aye," Murdoch said.  "The tahme will come when the militia will need a commander tae be chosen.  And while that's yaer decision, ah'd lahk to recommend the mouse Donnal for the position."  More anxious murmurs.

"Why?" one of the elders implored.

"Why not?" Murdoch countered.  "Donnal carries a lot of respect wi' the recruits, and ah've seen and trained enough beasts tae know a leader when ah see one.  He's go' what it takes, believe me."

"Donnal is my son," Voh informed the wolf in a cautionary tone.

"Aye."

"I was unaware that he had thrown in his lot with the militia."

"Really?"  Murdoch was genuinely surprised at this.  "Ah'm surprised he didna tell ye.  But where did ye think he was guin' every day tae get so tahred?"

"He told me he was helping some of the other beasts try to take down the great oak."

"Oh aye, that monster.  Ye know, mah lads cid bring it doon in less than half a day."

"Please stay on the subject, Murdoch."

"That's _Lord_ Murdoch, if ye dunnae mind.  And ah cannae see what there is tae talk aboot regarding yaer son: he wanted tae do something that he knew ye widna approve of.  And he's rather good at it, too."

"It does not matter how good Donnal is at being a soldier," Voh stated sternly.  "I do not want him to put himself in danger like that."  Ah, so the old mouse was having second thoughts about the militia's existence.

"Ah understand," the wolf returned, somewhat defensively.  "But if it's no' too bold of me to ask, how will he be safer without a weapon if the Oskneyans come for Noonvale?"

The air suddenly became tense as the Patriarch of Noonvale and the Lord of Byrnach stared hard at each other.  They retained their composures for now, but it was very clear that they were burning with anger on the inside.

"Oi burlieve we'm 'ave covered all there be to speak of," the old mole broke in.

"You are quite right," Padraig Voh said, not moving his gaze from Murdoch's.  "Thank you for coming, Lord Murdoch.  We hope to talk with you again sometime."

"Mah pleasure," said the wolf lord as he rose from his seat.  He started to turn, then, as though remembering something, spoke again.

"Pardon me, Chieftain," he began, "but ah wid lahk tae ask one question before ah go."

"Go ahead," Voh responded.

"Thank ye.  Ah was wondering why mah troops and I have been asked tae stay ootsahde the village proper during our stay here."

"Yes, that."  Voh looked uneasy.  He spoke carefully while he gave his answer.  "You must understand; our valley has never seen war before.  If a band of warriors were to enter it, they might…influence the populace and it is that influence that Noonvale has been safe from for its entire existence.  There is no telling what that influence would do to our home, and we would prefer not to find out."

Safe from? _ Safe from?_  Who did this blowhard think he was, to pass judgment on beasts he had never even met?  It was a wonder Murdoch was able to stop his fangs from bearing themselves and tearing the old mouse's throat out.  Instead, he forced himself to give a genteel bow as befitting a departure from a formal meeting.

"Of course"—Murdoch could not stop the sneer—"_Chieftain_."  He turned around and stormed out of the meting house before another word could be uttered.


	7. To the North

Cavern Hole was utterly quiet this early in the morning.  Not one beast in the abbey stirred, save for Abbess Fenna.  She sat alone in the chamber where Redwall held so many celebrations and parties when the feasting was done and the weather was cold.  Tristan would be leaving tomorrow morning.  Preparations for his journey would only take a day, and the soldier from the Northlands saw no reason to dawdle.

Shilly would be coming soon.  She would ask the abbess for a favor.  And the abbess wasn't sure how she would answer.  If Fenna granted that favor, it would give Shilly the chance to grow and mature, to become wiser in the ways of the world.  But that was only if she didn't get killed.

It was adventure the squirrelmaid longed for, and now at long last Fate had given her the opportunity to experience it firsthand.  No more having to settle for songs and stories in Cavern Hole; no, now she would make her own story!  She would see those far-off lands she had heard such wondrous things of, meet new friends on the road, and brave the harsh elements…

Just like Abbess Fenna had done many seasons ago.  Fenna remembered her journey well, how she and her friends sneaked out of the abbey against Abbot Carrul's instructions and embarked on a quest to find a cure for Sister Martha's illness.  She remembered how she once came so close to death she saw her grandparents, how they befriended a tribe of river shrews, how they fought off an army of vermin in the dark abyss of the canyon and returned home as heroes.

Pawsteps could be heard coming from the Great Hall.  That would be Shilly looking for the abbess and an answer to her request.  She was the same age Fenna had been when she left the abbey all those seasons ago.  In fact, she was the same in spirit as well, always looking for mischief and excitement, always looking for adventure.  Unless something enormous happened to her, her mischievous ways would grow into outright defiance of authority.  Fenna could only think of one thing when she tried to find something like that.

The young squirrelmaid poked her head through the door to Cavern Hole and saw the abbess in an instant.  She looked nervous and excited—although she tried not to show it—as she walked over to the elder squirrel at the end of the chamber.  Fenna looked up solemnly at Shilly and prepared for her to ask the question.

"Um, Mother Abbess," Shilly began.

"I know why you are here, my child," Fenna interrupted.  "You came to ask me if you could go with Tristan when he takes the Sword of Martin to the Northlands.  And Yooch probably wants to go with you."

"Well, uh, yes," Shilly replied, somewhat taken aback.  "How did you know?"

Fenna smiled gently.  "You forget, young one, that I was very much like you at your age.  I know how you feel and think."

Shilly looked away, suddenly realizing how her honeybomb plan had been so easily foiled.  "All right," she said.  "Will you let me and Yooch go?"

"If I say no, then you will go anyway.  I told you, I know how you think.  Quite frankly, I would rather you went properly prepared than with no plan at all.  But you must know something before you go.  Please, sit."

The squirrelmaid sat down next to the abbess, not quite sure what to expect.  Fenna closed her eyes and took a breath before she spoke again.

"Do you remember when Horty, Springald, and I left the abbey to find a cure for Sister Martha?  Good.  Remember also that there were _five_ of us in all, but only three returned.  Those two older beasts, Bragoon and Sarobando, were killed on the journey.  Now, our path was dangerous enough; I came close to death more times than I care to remember.  But Tristan is going to a war.  The journey up there will be hard, it is winter after all.  But every day you spend in the Northlands you will be putting your life in danger.  The vermin you meet there will not be cowards and bullies like the beasts you've heard about in stories; they will be seasoned killers who have been trained to fight and slay other armed beasts.

Now that you have heard all of this, child, do you still wish to go?"

Shilly remained silent for a moment.  "Yes, Mother Abbess," she said at last.  "If I don't see what's beyond the abbey walls, I might go crazy.  And besides, it's a long way to the Northlands and Tristan will need some company.  Yooch and I will be fine; and if we run into any trouble Tristan will be able to protect us.  You saw him in the Quarterstaff Tournament, he's a fighter."

Abbess Fenna nodded and sighed reluctantly.  "Very well, my child.  I will ask Brother Chulain to go with you.  But be careful and always do as Tristan says; he has been doing this for a long time and knows what he's talking about.  And when you reach Skaramor, Tristan's task will be done and I would like you, Yooch, and Brother Chulain to return to Redwall as soon as that happens."

The young squirrelmaid abruptly threw her arms around the Abbess and squeezed her tightly.  "Oh, thank you, Mother Abbess, thank you!  And don't worry, we'll be careful and we'll all come back safe and sound!"

~~~~

_From the writings of Springald, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower.___

Mercy, this abbey is busy all of a sudden!  Tristan is making ready to depart for his homeland, taking the Sword of Martin with him to fight a vermin horde called the Oskneyans.  Goodness, that's a name that doesn't roll off the tongue very easily.  Anyhow, our young Shillomir and Yooch are going with him.  I was going to protest to the Abbess about how it was too dangerous, but then I remembered how she, our friend Horty, and I snuck out after Abbot Carrul forbade us to go on a journey of our own.  We can't stop them, so why bother trying?  Anyway, I'm sure they'll be safe, because Brother Chulain has agreed to go himself.  My word, you should have seen him and Tristan at the Winter Games yesterday.  I'd hate to be the vermin that crosses those two!

I found a fairly recent map of Mossflower in the Gatehouse, and somewhere among these confounded volumes is a map of the lands just north of the country.  I saw it in here not more than a week ago, but now it's decided to hide from me.  Tristan assures me that the map is not needed, that everything will be fine as long as they keep heading north and don't drift to far to the east—that being the part of the Northlands ruled by the Oskneyans.

If Yooch and Shillomir learn anything at all from this little trip, I hope it's to appreciate the life they have here at Redwall.  Nothing I've heard about the Northlands—especially the stories from Tristan—make me want to go there.  Can you imagine having to fight a war all season long?  I certainly can't, and I don't much wish to experience it firstpaw!  At least now I know where Sister Setiva (who used to be our Infirmary Sister) learned to treat injuries so remarkably well.  She was from the Northlands herself, you see—

Oh, what a silly beast I am!  That map I was looking for was right here all along, just under the parchment I'm writing on!  I had better go take this to our adventurers.  Well, until next time…

~~~~

Sister Springald carefully rolled up the map and hurried out the gatehouse door.  The noon sky was overcast with dark clouds that would no doubt carry snow; hopefully they would be gone by tomorrow morning, when the group would depart.  It was not a good idea to travel when snow was falling.

The dibbuns were playing in the snow, acting out all of the exciting adventures Shilly and Yooch would have on their journey while Sister Tara watched over them and played along when she was included in the games.  They waved about invisible swords and fought against hordes of imaginary vermin, all of whom were defeated with ease.  Springald smiled.  Being a dibbun was truly a wonderful time in an abbeybeast's life.  Sometimes Springald wished she could go back to that time of her life, to not have a care in the world.  But life never turned out like that, and now the aging mouse had responsibilities to attend to.

Inside the Great Hall, the four travelers were getting their equipment together for tomorrow.  When Tristan had been told that he was to have company on his trek, he had shown mixed emotions.  He seemed at once relieved that he would not be alone, and any fool could tell that he and Shilly enjoyed each other's company, but there was also a trace of annoyance that he would be looking after two inexperienced beasts.  Apparently he had gotten over that, as he was now engaging Yooch in amiable conversation.

"A wolf!  Hurr, oi b'aint never seen a wolf afore."

"Oh, he's quite a sight," Tristan said to the mole.  "Bigger than most badgers, and stronger too.  He and brother Chulain are the only beasts I've seen who can flip a caber three times in one toss."

"Hurr, oi spec ee can put ee vittles away fair quick!"

"Well he's a lord, so he gets all the vittles he wants.  Rank has its privileges, after all.  Oh hello, Sister Springald."

"Hello to you, too," the recorder greeted him.  "I found that map I told you about, the one with the area just north of Mossflower."

"Oh, thank you."  Tristan accepted the map from her and looked over it carefully.  "Aye, some of the landmarks I passed on my way south are on here.  The mountain, the cherry orchard…thank you, Sister, this will come in handy."  He rolled up the parchment and placed it into one of the four packs resting on table seats.  Next to the packs was a cloth, cross-shaped bundle held together with rope: the Sword of Martin.  No sheath could be found for the blade, so it would have to be carried as it was.  It was still hard to believe that it would be leaving its home for so long.

"My, you've certainly made a lot of progress," Sister Springald remarked, taking a close look at the packs.

"Aye, that we have," Tristan agreed.  "Shilly's getting healing supplies from Sister Martha, Friar Barney's getting that last of the provisions ready, and Brother Chulain said he had a flail once; he's out looking for it right now.  Once we have everything together, we'll plan out our route and leave first thing tomorrow morning.  I don't think we'll run into trouble, since I wasn't bothered on my way down here, but we'll have to be careful about the cold.  A blizzard could be a real menace."

"Burr, oi 'opes oi daont get frozered!" Yooch exclaimed.

"You don't have to come, you know."

"Oi carnt let Shilly harf all ee fun, can oi?  Asoides, ennything that daont kill oi only makes oi stronger!"

~~~~

The sky was overcast when dawn came again.  The rising sun was barely recognizable behind its silver veil, appearing only as a pale area of light amid the darkness of the clouds.  Such a thing at the start of a journey was not a good omen, but Tristan was determined to reach Skaramor before the thaw.  So, warily, the three abbeybeasts who would be joining him broke their fast and readied their equipment.  Those who were already awake gathered in the courtyard to see off the adventurers, wishing them well and imploring them to come home safely.  As he had expected, Tristan received more than a few cold shoulders, particularly from Foremole Hurm.  He had ceased to care about that.

Brother Chulain had found his flail and Tristan's spear had been returned to him; these would be kept in plain sight as a warning to any robbers that might find them.  Martin's sword was still in its cloth bundle, slung over Tristan's shoulder with his pack.  The squirrel soldier had hoped to take along a knife or two so that everybeast had a weapon, but the only knives were in the kitchen and Friar Barney needed them.  Perhaps a proper-sized log could be found and used as a cudgel.

"Remember," Abbess Fenna told Shilly and Yooch, "listen to Tristan and Brother Chulain.  They know what they're doing."

"Yes, Mother Abbess," the youngsters said in unison.

"And keep your cloaks about you at all times and don't get them wet."

"Yes, Mother Abbess."

"And when you reach Skaramor, turn around and come home."

"Yes, Mother Abbess."

"I think these two have had all the advice they can take, Mother Abbess," Sister Martha observed.

"Oh all right," Fenna relented.  "Just try not to get yourselves killed."

"Don't worry!" Shilly replied, a little too carefree for the abbess' liking.

With a mighty groan, the main gate of Redwall Abbey was opened and the way to adventure was clear.  Anticipation ready to explode in their chests, Yooch and Shilly looked at each other and smiled.  This was what they had been waiting for!  The farewells and well-wishing of the abbey dwellers saw the four travelers off as they marched through the gate and out into the great wide world.

Another groan sounded as the gate closed behind them.  There followed a muffled thud as the crossbar was put in place.  Shilly and Yooch looked around to see what the world was like.

Snow blanketed the ground.  No life, save for the countless trees, could be found anywhere.  The only prominent sight was the road, a straight clearing in the middle of the forest.  No end to the road was to be seen.  For all they knew, it went on forever north, going right on to the end of the world.  The air suddenly seemed much darker and colder as a calm south wind stirred.

"Right then, let's go," Tristan said, and started walking north.


	8. Onward

No matter how hard the wind blew, they would not stop. No matter how deep the snow became, they would not stop. Even if half their number died of exposure, they would continue to march onward. The army slogged through the cold of winter with a single purpose guiding their steps: victory and the slaughter that would follow it. Promises of glory and vast wealth danced in their minds, taunting them and beckoning them forward. Oh, how they looked forward to the massacre they would bring upon their enemies. Oh, how the cowards and weaklings would flee before their blades and the death they would bring.

In only a few short seasons, the war would be theirs. With this one victory, they would have the perfect staging area from which to launch invasions into the rest of the enemy's territory. It would all be too easy from there. No army would be able to dislodge them once they took that mighty stronghold. It would become a warning, a symbol of their kingdom's invincibility and inevitable conquest of all the lands before them.

Sigurd Blood-Tooth and his warriors continued to march through the rest of the day, leaving nothing but a river of mud and ice in their wake.

====

"How much farther is it?"

"Two days less than it was the last time you asked," Tristan replied in an irritated tone. "You'll have to be patient; we're not even out of Mossflower yet."

"Not even—" Shilly was too shocked to finish the sentence. Mossflower must have been bigger than she thought.

"Don't fret, little one," Chulain told the squirrelmaid. "We'll get there eventually. Just keep moving on ahead."

That advice was sound enough, but "eventually" was a very long way off and the road was anything but scenic. It was the same stretch all day, every day: trees all around, no sound but the travelers' voices and the crunching of paws on snow, and the endless road stretching on ahead of them and behind them. The monotony of it all threatened to drive Shilly mad. Then she tried to imagine making the trek alone, with no food and an axe wound on her chest. Suddenly the journey didn't seem so bad.

"Ee road lukks to be taprin' off," Yooch observed.

"Aye, pretty soon we'll be going through pure wilderness," Chulain said. "That won't make this any easier."

"We have to keep going," Tristan insisted. "Besides, it's not that bad; I was here before. The only real challenge I remember is a stream we'll have to cross."

"And how do we manage that?" the burly hedgehog wanted to know.

"There were some rocks close enough together for me to jump between them. As long as nobeast slips and goes into the water, we'll be fine."

"That could be quite a big 'as long as' with these packs."

"We'll think of some way to remedy that," the squirrel answered confidently.

Shilly was not so sure of that, and automatically began reviewing how Sister Martha taught her how to stop a beast from freezing to death. A few minor details were missing from her memory. Ordinarily this would not have bothered her, but now for some reason it seemed critical. One of those minor details might turn out to be not so minor, and one of her friends might die because she forgot her lessons. The air suddenly felt a little colder.

====

That night was almost exactly the same as all the other nights the travelers spent on the trip, save for the fact that the road was now gone. A fire was built, a meal was cooked, and the order of taking watch was decided. Not for the first time and not for the last, Shilly thought of Redwall. By now everybeast back home would be in Cavern Hole, safe and sound and warm, listening to stories and songs already heard a hundred times over and never knowing what it was like to actually be the creatures in those tales. They would while away the night with good food and drink, then one by one they would drift off to bed. Tomorrow would be exactly the same, and so would the day after that and the day after that until winter finally released its grip on the world and the monotony could be experienced outside rather than in.

In about four days' time the squirrelmaid and Yooch would find out what the Northlands were like. The abbey elders had always said that the North was a dangerous place, in which clans fought desperately against one another just to survive. But what beasts said and what was true were so often in conflict with each other. The only way to be sure of what kind of place the Northlands were was to go there.

Supper for that night was oat bread, hard cheese, and plum cake warmed by the fire. Yooch was still a little hungry when it was finished, but he was starting to get used to that by now. Chulain took the first watch, and the other three wrapped themselves in blankets and went to sleep with frost and cold nipping at their faces.

====

Tristan never actually broke the stones; he just carried them by cart to their first destination. Other slaves dug them up and broke them into more manageable pieces so they could be used for building. It took four children to move a stone cart, and the young squirrel could hardly stand the strain on his muscles. Every trip he made with a full cart, it felt like all of his limbs were going to fall off out of protest.

Aemish had it easy; he got a relatively comfortable job in the kitchens. They were hot, sure enough, but there wasn't as much of a strain on the muscles. Every now and then the brothers would see each other through the window. They couldn't wave to each other, at least not for more than a moment, because otherwise the Oskneyan overseers would punish them for not working. Today they would see each other again, but for the very last time.

If there was one thing their parents had taught Tristan and his little brother, it was to help others in need, no matter what. Tristan was old enough to know that life as a slave often demanded forgetting that lesson, but Aemish was too young and naïve. And so it was that Olaf Iron-Rod, the Oskneyan lord that had enslaved Tristan's clan, came into the kitchens to torment the slaves there. Perhaps he thought his supper last night was not satisfactory, or perhaps he was just bored that day. Tristan would never know, and quite frankly he didn't care.

Tristan watched through the window as Olaf swaggered into the hot kitchens, the usual glint of conceit in his eyes. He cooed out some orders Tristan couldn't hear, and then focused his attention on a mousemaid working by the stove. She had spent most of the night before taking care of her newborn, and so she hadn't gotten very much sleep. She was adding hotroot pepper to a stew when her concentration slipped and she put too much, far too much of the spice in. Olaf caught this mistake and immediately stormed over and slapped her hard across the face. He started yelling at her and probably making cruel jokes—the window muffled most of the noise—and never saw the young squirrel sneaking up with a knife in his paw. None of the overseers noticed Aemish at first; they were too busy laughing at the mousemaid's expense. But he was the sole focus of their attention when the knife's blade stabbed through their lord's tail.

Olaf's scream could be clearly heard, even outside in the compound. The overseers in the kitchen wasted no time in setting upon Aemish with their staves, knocking him to the floor where he couldn't fight back. Enraged, Olaf brought out the rod that gave him his name and used it brutally, bloodying the little squirrel almost as badly as the staves. Aemish writhed in pain and cried out, only to have his teeth broken by an especially hard rod blow.

Tristan tried to leap at the window, but the slaves who were helping him with the cart held him back. They pleaded with him to keep moving before an overseer saw them not working, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. Tristan was oblivious to all but the gruesome scene of his brother's torment. Staves and rod hit the helpless Aemish again and again, even after he stopped screaming or moving at all…

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. But no sound came from his mouth but a rasping, ragged breath. He tried again, and this time the sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a grunt.

Tristan opened his eyes and found himself back at the makeshift camp he and the Redwallers had set, with Chulain looking very concernedly at him.

"You all right, mate?" the hedgehog asked.

"Yes," Tristan croaked. He didn't think he sounded very convincing. "Yes, I'm all right," he said, more firmly this time. "It was just a nightmare."

"Must've been one hell of a nightmare, the way you were thrashing about like that."

Tristan said nothing to reply. He just curled up next to the dying embers of the fire and tried to go back to sleep, smiling as he thought of how he would finally exact bloody vengeance on Olaf Iron-Rod.


	9. Making Progress

Morning came so quietly that Shilly slept through its arrival.  Only when the smell of cooking pancakes reached her nose did her eyelids deign to open.  She was the last beast to wake; Tristan, Chulain, and Yooch were busying themselves over the sizzling breakfast, greeting her with good-natured ribbing that seemed quite cruel this early in the day.

"Back with the living, I see!"

"Oh ho, lads, she's alive after all!  Guess we won't have to bury her then."

Shilly replied to the merciless barrage of jokes with a prim, "Yes, I'm alive, you hooligans.  Now can you tell me where all the grown beasts have gone?"  Or rather, that was what she _intended_ to say.  What she _actually_ said was, "Mmmrf."  This fueled all kinds of chuckling from her companions, and it was only after the travelers had broken their fast that the squirrelmaid was allowed to have her dignity back.

By now they were all so used to the task of breaking camp that it was practically second nature to them.  Tristan studied a map, marveling at how accurate and detailed it was.

"Aye, that was made by the Guosim shrews," Chulain told him.  "Best map-makers in the world, they are.  They always make sure that every picture on their maps is exactly where it's supposed to be."

"Impressive," Tristan mused.  "Very impressive.  Well, I found a solution to our problem of hopping over those rapids I told you about.  According to this, there's a narrow area of the creek that can be very easily crossed, or at least more easily than the way I took.  We can make camp in a nearby copse of trees."  That sounded good, and in a few moments the campsite had been abandoned as the foursome headed off on the next step of their journey.

None of the others knew it, but Tristan could not read.  He could recognize the directions of north, south, east, and west on the map, as he had for seasons.  But the various words meant nothing to him.  It was a shame, too, because otherwise he would have seen that the Guosim had put a warning next to the copse of trees that was to be the next campsite:

_Snow Ferrets._

====

Murdoch stood on a rock before the Noonvale militia still as a statue, a shield raised high above his head.

"Mah ancestor slew an eagle that had plagued his home," he told the militia.  "Where the eagle had made ets nest, he built the fortress that still stands to this day.  Since then the lords of Byrnach have ever used the eagle as their standard.  The tahme will come when you will choose yaer own standard."  He put the shield down.  "Dismissed!  We'll continue combat training taemorrow."

The militia gave a smart salute and a satisfactory "Aye, sir!" before returning to their homes for the night.  They were progressing through their training at a brisk pace; maybe Murdoch would be able to finish the job and go home before the thaw.  But probably not, and the wolf lord had already resigned himself to that.

Amidst the mingling Skaramorians, a strange figure in a green robe slowly made his way towards Murdoch.  He drew stares from all around, and with good reason: he was an elder of Noonvale.  Murdoch wasted no time in approaching him.

The elder was an old otter who looked more than a little nervous.  "Greetings, Lord Murdoch," he intoned.  "I have a request to make of you and your beasts."

"Och, do ye?"  The wolf was not impressed.

"Aye, that I do.  You see, we in the village have been struck with a sudden shortage of firewood, and I recalled that you said your soldiers here could bring down the great oak—"

"Ah thought ye wanted Noonvale to be safe from our influence," Murdoch broke in rather coldly.

The otter coughed nervously.  "Yes, well," he responded sheepishly, "there should be no harm in letting you in for—half a day, did you say?"

"Aye.  Did you make this decision yaerself?"

"Oh no, all of the elders agreed on it.  Including Padraig," the otter added, anticipating Murdoch's reply.

"Well then.  If Voh is willing tae admit that we're not all bad, he can come here and do et face-tae-face.  Good day."

"But—"

"Good _day_, elder."  Murdoch would not turn his back.  He wanted to send the otter away, and got just that.  The elder shuffled off through the snow to deliver Murdoch's reply to his chieftain.

====

"He wants _what!?_"

"He wants you to ask for his help in person," the otter repeated.  "And I don't think he's being totally unreasonable; his camp is only a short walk away and all you'll really be doing is asking for half a day's work.  You could get it over with today."

"That's not the _point_!" Padraig Voh growled.  "I can't show weakness to him; who knows what might happen after this!  What if I sent Donnal?"

"If I go ask him he's going to laugh in my face," the chieftain's son said with no doubt in his voice.  "Come on, father, what's more important: your pride or our being able to get through the rest of the winter without freezing?"

Noonvale's chieftain made a variety of irritated noises but didn't form any real words.  He cast a frustrated look at Donnal and the elder.  "I need time to think about this," he said brusquely.  Both his son and elder rolled their eyes at Padraig's stubbornness and left.

"He'll relent eventually," the otter determined when they were both out of earshot.  "He'll have to and he knows it; Murdoch's got him beat on this one."

"Aye, but how long before that 'eventually' comes about?" Donnal answered.  "My father is about as stubborn as they come."

"True, true.  But so are you."  That brought up the very unpleasant memory of Donnal's and Padraig's confrontation about the son's involvement with the militia.  It wasn't an experience Donnal liked to relive.  Padraig just stormed into the room and exploded at his son; forbidding him to take part in any more of the training and going off into a seemingly endless rant about how fighting was not appropriate for the future chieftain of Noonvale.  Donnal resisted the decision with every fiber of his being and went into an angry rant of his own, describing how it was a chieftain's duty to protect his clan and how the militia could help him with that.  Only the protests of every single beast in the militia succeeded in convincing the old mouse to let his son be a militiabeast.

"As far as I can remember, the patriarchs of this village have always been stubborn," the otter continued.  "But they have always seen reason, even if they didn't see it at first.  And so will your father; just you wait and see."

====

Ropes whipped around the great oak's canopy and fell to earth to be caught by waiting Skaramorians.  At the same time, well-organized soldiers with anything that could be used for digging went to work on the cold, hard ground that covered the roots.  A few moles were with them, and they heartily put their natural talents to good use.  They were well used to working with each other and highly disciplined.  Noonvalers stood to the side and watched, deeply impressed by how fast Murdoch and his soldiers worked.  Already they had accomplished more than the villagers had been able to in an entire summer.

"Pahkes in the hole!" Aonghas ordered.  Without missing a beat, the pikebeasts of Murdoch's cadre stuck their weapons into the massive hole dug around the oak.  "Get ready, and…push!"  The pikes, in unison, threw all of their weight on the makeshift levers.

"Pull, you lassies!"  Murdoch's command was followed at once; anybeast who wasn't on a pike grabbed a rope and pulled as hard as he could.  Most of them shared ropes between two of them, but the wolf lord himself was so big and strong he had two ends to himself.

Several loud cracks rang through the air.  A loud groan was almost drowned out by the wild cheering.  And with that, the mighty oak crashed to the snow-covered ground, ripped up by the roots.  Congratulations, praises, and thanks were spread all around.  Murdoch had not been exaggerating in his claim; the tree went down well before noon.  Padraig Voh, not wanting to look unfair, thanked the wolf lord right there in front of everybeast—not that he looked happy doing it, though.

While the villagers and soldiers were celebrating, Drog and the ottermaid he had met sneaked off to be alone for a moment.  Murdoch noticed this, but said nothing and denied knowing anything when somebeast asked him about it.  Drog had led a hard life, after all.  Come to think of it, a lot of Murdoch's beasts had led hard lives; almost half his command was comprised of escaped slaves.  Byrnach was a common destination for such refugees, what with its proximity to Oskneyan lands.  It would have been a major target of Sigurd Blood-Tooth's wrath had it not been so formidable a stronghold.  The Oskneyan king would have needed almost his entire army to stand a chance of taking it, and doing so would have left him very vulnerable on the northern front.  It was a good thing, too, because if Byrnach fell then the rest of Skaramor would be quick to follow.

But such thoughts were not needed now.  Here, amid the peace and merriment of Noonvale, there was no war.

====

With a might leap, Chulain crossed the gap between the last rock and the riverbank and landed his footpaws firmly on the muddy ground—or at least as firmly as one can land in mud.  Tristan and Shilly were waiting for him there, with the hapless, water-fearing Yooch still on the other side of the river.

"Come on, Yooch!" Shilly called.  "There's no need to worry, it's easy!  You won't fall in, I promise!"

"Hurr, oi bain't no skurrel or hedgehogger, oi be a moler!  Oi's afeared oi'll fall 'n draown!"

"You said you wanted adventure," Tristan reminded him.  "Well, here it is.  It could be worse; we could be crossing rapids."

"That daon't make oi feel better," Yooch replied.  But he started hopping between the rocks anyway.  It was slow, careful going and the poor mole kept mumbling something that sounded like, "Oi'm goin' tur doi, oi'm goin' tur doi," but he made it halfway across the river without much of a problem.  He made it all the way to the second-to-last rock before he slipped.  His arms flailed wildly and his waist twisted as Yooch struggled to stay out of the frigid water.

With an agility gained from seasons of scouting, Tristan hurtled over the stepping stones and grabbed Yooch's paw before he left the rock completely.

"Thankee," the mole muttered sheepishly.  They reached the riverbank without any more excitement.

It was almost sunset when the travelers reached the copse of trees.  It was a rather nice place, with the river running through it to nurture the trees.  Like every other place in winter, it was quiet, but it seemed like it would have been so even in summer.  There was hardly any snow on the ground; apparently most of it had been stopped by the treetops.  That struck Chulain as rather odd, but he didn't comment on it.  Supper was simple as always, and when it was finished the burly hedgehog volunteered to take the first watch.

During his vigil, Chulain thought he heard voices coming from somewhere—and they weren't familiar.  Seizing his flail, he stood up and carefully examined the surrounding area.  There was definitely something moving in the darkness.  Instinctively he bent over to wake the others and never saw the stone that struck him in the back of the head and rendered him unconscious.  Silently, all four travelers were bound and gagged before they knew what was happening and were dragged away into the night.


	10. Snow Ferrets

The first thing Chulain noticed when he regained consciousness was that there was a terrible pain in the back of his head.  The second was that there were three white-furred ferrets standing over him with spears in their paws.  The third was that his paws were bound.  The last time the burly hedgehog was in a situation like this was a very long time ago.  He hoped he could remember how he got out of it.

"Wot're yew doin in our lands, spikedog!?" one of the ferrets demanded.

"We were just…looking for a place to rest," Chulain replied, wincing at the pain in the back of his head.

"Yew picked the wrong place, yew did," the ferret spat.  "Ain't nobeast trespasses in our land and lives ter tell about it!"  The other ferrets grinned wickedly and repeated the first's words.  So the one doing the talking was the leader.  That meant Chulain would have to take care of him first.

"We meant no harm," Chulain stated.  "If you will only let us go, we promise to leave and never to bother you again."  All this got him was a kick in the stomach.

"Shut up, spikedog!" the lead ferret snapped.

"Heehee, shut up, spikedog!" the other two chorused.  If the lead ferret died, those two would probably run.

"We're gonna do summat real special to you lot, we will," the leader declared.  "Our chief decided ter use you as a message ter other trespassers.  We're gonna hang yew all ter death from tree branches, one at each direction—north, south, east 'n' west.  Sound good?  Harrharrharr!"  The other ferrets joined in his laughter.

The sounds of paws crunching through snow reached Chulain's ears and more voices arrived.

"Get 'em up'n movin'!" somebeast—probably another ferret—ordered.  "Chief says we're gonna show 'em their friend!"  The three ferrets that stood over Chulain cackled mercilessly and hauled the burly hedgehog to his footpaws.  With a few pokes from their spears, they convinced him to start walking.  Soon he was joined by Shilly and Yooch, both similarily bound and force-marched.

"Bruvver Chulain!" the mole exclaimed.  "You'm all roight?"  A spear shaft whacked him in the head.

"Keep walkin'!" he was told.

"Don't worry, you two," Chulain said reassuringly.  "I promised the Abbess I'd keep ye safe, an' that's what I'll do."

The white ferrets erupted into peals of mocking laughter.  "Heehee!  Promised the Abbess I'd keep ye safe!  Hahaho!"

"Where are you taking us?" Shilly asked, trying to keep a brave voice but not succeeding very well.

"Heehee…yer friend tried ter fight back, so we strung 'im up early, we did!"  Shilly would have cried had she not been so shocked.  Tristan was dead.

The travelers were taken to the western edge of the wood, led by a big ferret with painting on his face: the chief.  When the figure hanging from a tree came into view, the chief turned around and stopped the procession.  Raising his paws for silence, he began his speech.

"Now see what 'appens to those who trespass in our lands!" he proclaimed.  His subjects broke into cheers, and stopped when he motioned for silence again.  "These trespassers shall serve as a warning to all other beasts not to—"

"Yaaagh!!  'E's escaped!!"  The chief turned to look at the hanging body and let his jaw drop.  There was indeed a corpse hanging from the tree, but it belonged to no squirrel.  Rather, it was a white-furred ferret, and nearby laid two others, both slain.  Immediately upon realizing this, the tribe of snow ferrets disintegrated into chaos.  Some panicked and fled the scene; others simply asked each other what to do.  Roaring as loud as he could, the chief quickly restored order.

"The trees!" he shouted.  "Everybeast with a bow or sling look in the trees and find 'im!  Squirrels always go to the trees!"  The command was obeyed immediately.  For what seemed like an eternity, nobeast spoke, and the three captives were mostly forgotten.

"I see 'im!" one ferret exclaimed.  He loosed an arrow that struck only a tree branch.  A few other archers scanned the area around where the first had aimed but saw nothing.

Shilly's heart was pounding harder than it ever had in her entire life.  Her breath came in and out as trembling sighs.  She, too, looked in the treetops for Tristan, hoping that he would be able to save her and the others.  Then a thought occurred to her.  Slowly, her gaze traveled from the branches above her to the stream that ran through the copse.

_…we would have been too easy to track on land, so an otter in our group taught us to swim…_

A blur of red-brown fur exploded out of the water, and before anybeast could react two ferrets were run through.  The first vermin to attack the figure quickly got his throat slashed, dropping his spear right where Chulain could easily reach it.

"Get down, you two," the hedgehog implored.  Yooch and Shilly did as they were told and crouched down on the ground, where they watched as the brutal rescue effort raged on.

The new figure was Tristan, all right.  In one paw he held his trusty spear; the other held the Sword of Martin the Warrior.  Both weapons were being put to good use as the squirrel soldier carved through the snow ferrets like a scythe through wheat.  Chulain used the dropped spear to cut his bonds and join in the fight, lashing and kicking any foe in his reach.  Any ferret that went down was likely to stay down for a long time.

Between the hedgehog's strength, the squirrel's agility and speed, and the superior experience shared between the two, the white-furred vermin found themselves outmatched even with their numerical superiority.  One ferret got bold and charged Chulain while swinging a flail around.  Chulain ducked the swing and seized the flail his one paw.

"This is mine," he growled.  He wrenched the flail away from the vermin and slapped him across the head with it.  The ferret slumped to the ground and did not move.

"Bloimey," Yooch murmured.  "Wudd ee lukk et those two."  Shilly was sure that the fight must have been an impressive sight, but her eyes were firmly fixed on the creature she had just seen a Redwaller kill.

"All right, nobeast move!" Tristan's voice shouted.  Shilly managed to take her eyes away from the dead ferret to see a very frightened-looking snow ferret chief with the blade of Martin's sword at his throat.  All fighting ceased so that the white-furred vermin could plead for the squirrel to spare their leader's life.

"Do as I say or he's a deadbeast!" Tristan snapped.  The ferrets quickly agreed.  "Now, untie my friends there." He gestured at Shilly and Yooch, and the command was obeyed.  "You will give us back everything you stole from us."  This, too, was quickly done.  "Now then.  We will leave your copse with your chief in tow.  When we are far enough away, we will release him.  But if any of you follow us; if I even have reason to _think_ that you are following us, your chief will die.  Understand?"  Not one beast said no.  "Good.  Yooch, Brother Chulain, Shilly…" All five went north from the home of the snow ferrets unmolested, with the captured chief breathing heavily and not daring to speak.  Tristan made very sure that nobeast was following them.

When the copse of trees was little more than a speck on the horizon, Tristan let the ferret chief go.  He babbled thanks for sparing his life and ran as fast as he could through the snow back to his home.

====

"You played it pretty smart back there," Chulain remarked to Tristan when they had set up camp and finished their meal.  "Goin' inta the river instead o' the trees, I never would have thought o' that."

"It's all a matter of fighting instinct," the squirrel replied.  He was sitting against a rock while Shilly silently looked at his wounds.  "I was having second thoughts about it, actually.  That water was freezing."  He winced a little as Shilly applied a bandage.  "We were lucky the chief had the guts to stay and fight; if he had run we would all be dead right now."

 "Tristan," Shilly asked suddenly, "if those vermin had followed us, would you really have killed their chief?"

"Of course not.  I would have used him as a shield first."

Shilly was shocked.  "Do you really hold such little regard for life?"

"I hold plenty of regard for the lives of me and my friends," the Northlander retorted defensively.  "Anybeast or anything that threatens them can go to Hell as far as I'm concerned, and I'd be perfectly happy to send them on their way."

"So you don't have any regrets about killing those ferrets?"

"Absolutely not!  Shilly, they were going to _kill_ you!  All of you!  Do you understand the meaning of the word 'kill'?"

"I understand the word perfectly well.  And—"

"Oh no.  There's no 'and'.  The last time I fought against odds like that I lost fifteen friends I had known and fought beside for seasons!  Excuse me if I'm feeling good about myself for keeping all of my friends alive this time!"  Tristan was standing up now and trembling with anger…

_Or is it frustration?_ Chulain wondered.  The answer would reveal itself in time.  For now…  "I think we should get some sleep," the hedgehog suggested.

"You're right," Tristan said without looking.  "I'll take the first watch."  He stormed over to the edge of the camp and would not let anybeast see his eyes.

====

The snow ferrets did not pursue the travelers, at least not as far as Yooch could tell.  He reminded himself that he had no experience in such a matter; that Tristan and Brother Chulain would know better than he would.  Still, those two showed no signs of worry, and that was comforting.

Shilly walked in silence, shaken by the events of the day before.  The episode with the ferrets was certainly harrowing, but Yooch knew that his friend was being bothered by her confrontation with Tristan the previous night.  All her life, any argument Shilly got into was about rules and how to interpret them or why they were needed.  Out here in the wilderness, there were no rules other than survival.

When travelers came to Redwall and spun their tales of adventure to the Dibbuns, they always made their battles seem easier and less violent than they really were.  In the past few seasons, however, Yooch had noticed that a much more realistic tale had been told to the elders every single time—one told without any sign of embellishment at all.  Since then, the mole always listened with the elders because he wanted to know what really happened.  Shilly, on the other hand, had paid attention to the more romantic versions.

For the first time in his life, Yooch realized that he was more mature than his mischievous friend.  The thought made him more than a little uncomfortable.  Shilly had come on this journey looking for the romance she had heard so much about, while Yooch had been spending every step bracing himself for the time when somebeast would die.  He should have talked with her, made sure she knew what might have to happen.  In a way, he had failed his friend.

Over the next three days, the rift between Tristan and Shilly thinned as they both recovered from the emotional trials they put each other through.  Soon they were talking together like they used to; Shilly with her curiosity guiding her thoughts and Tristan with his patience in dealing with the squirrelmaid.  Yooch could once again see that attraction growing between them.

When they reached a river Tristan called Broadstream, the four travelers decided to make camp for the night.  They were too tired to ford the river, and the sun was setting anyway.  The next day, after they crossed Broadstream, the morning light revealed a forest in the distance.  Upon closer inspection, the forest turned out to be an orchard of cherry trees.

Elated that they had found something interesting that couldn't kill her, Shilly squealed with delight and raced on ahead to gather some cherries, followed by a somewhat slower Yooch.  Chulain smiled and chuckled and the young ones' antics, ceasing to do so when he saw the concerned look on Tristan's face.

"Sommat the matter, mate?" he asked.

"The Oskneyans found us somewhere in this area," the squirrel replied.  "I don't know how close we are to the actual site, but we'd better head in a more westerly direction from now on."

"Sounds good to me."  The burly hedgehog looked at Shilly and Yooch rummaging around the cherry trees, looking for some fruits that were worth eating.  "Don't see any reason to tell those two, mind ye.  Just let 'em have their fun for now."

"I suppose you're right.  They look like they could use some help looking for cherries—not much of a point to it, though, considering cherries aren't in season yet."

"Aye, but that's summat else they don't need to know."  Chulain grinned.

The travelers continued their fruitless search throughout most of the morning.  Tristan was careful to make sure they didn't go very far to the east, as going in that direction might bring them upon an Oskneyan war party.  He tried to tell himself that such an outcome was unlikely, but so was being attacked on his way south from Skaramor.  No chances could be taken.

Not one cherry that anybeast in their right mind would eat appeared.  By now Yooch was getting bored of the search, and was on the verge of giving up when he saw a tree that had a few bright-red cherries on it.  Eagerly, the mole trundled his way over to it, not noticing the deep ditch that lay between him and the cherries.  Without noticing it, he slipped and slid down to the snow-covered bottom.  Yooch pulled his face out of the snow and shook his head to get rid of the last few flakes.  For a fleeting instant, he thought he saw somebeast moving around several paces away from him.

"Shilly?"  He asked.  "Trizdan?  Hurr, Bruvver Chulain?"  There was no answer to any of the names he spoke.  He was probably just imagining things, but he started to get very nervous.

"Yooch?" Tristan's voice called.  "Where are you?"

"Hurr, oi be daown yurr, in ee ditch!" the mole answered.

"All right, I see you!"  Tristan appeared at the top of the ditch where Yooch had slipped and fallen.  Chulain and Shilly were with him, and they moved down to help their friend to his footpaws.

"You all right, mate?" Chulain asked.

"Oi be foine," Yooch responded.  "Hurr, but oi thought oi saw summat up thurr."  He pointed to where he had seen the figure.

"I'd better check it out," Tristan decided.  He removed his pack and readied his spear and the Sword of Martin.  "The rest of you wait here; I won't be long."

"Be careful!" Shilly told him.  In a moment the Northlander was over the opposite edge of the ditch and gone from view.

For a long while, nothing happened.  Yooch determined that what he had seen was just a trick of the light, an illusion.  Then shouting broke out some distance away.  Immediately Chulain got out his flail and charged up the side of the ditch, closely followed (against his wishes) by the youngsters.  The shouts quickly turned into sounds of battle.  Following the direction of the noise, the Redwallers came upon a scene they never could have imagined.

Tristan had disarmed his foe and pinned him against a tree with Martin's sword poised above the creature's throat.  Only the creature wasn't any Yooch recognized.  It was a squirrel, to be sure, right down to the face and bushy tail.  But from that face to that bushy tail, the squirrel was a steely gray.

"Tristan!"  Chulain exclaimed.  "What're you doin'?  What is that beast?"

"_This_," Tristan hissed, his eyes burning with hatred, "_is an Oskneyan_."


	11. Don't Look Back

_Squirrels?__  The Oskneyans are squirrels!?_  The words ran through Shilly's mind over and over as the shocking scene played out before her.  Moving the sword against the Oskneyans throat a little more, Tristan began growling a series of words that neither Shilly nor the other Redwallers recognized.  It took a moment for the abbey beasts to realize that this must be the Oskneyan language Tristan was speaking—he was interrogating the creature.

It was a harsh, throaty language that made Tristan sound angrier than he was before.  The gray squirrel started to panic, making agitated noises and probably insisting that he had no intention of harming the travelers.  He had a hard time making that story believable when his companions arrived.

"Yunar!" somebeast called.  "Yunar!  Vo bist du?  Kahnnst du mir hoeren?"

In Oskneyan, Tristan told the gray squirrel, "If you try to call to them, I will kill you."  Not about to die for something like this, the Oskneyan kept perfectly still and made no noise at all.

Yooch's head was swimming.  He thought he was prepared for the Northlands, but he never expected anything like this.  He was wondering what could have driven squirrels to enslave other beasts when he realized that, at any moment, more of those gray squirrels would appear.  Carefully, he edged over to whisper in Tristan's ear.

"We shudd hoide," he murmured.  "More of ee villyuns be cummin."

"You're right," the soldier whispered back, not taking his eyes from his captive.  "But what do we do with our friend here?"

"That don't matter," Chulain blurted out with urgency in his voice.  Yooch turned his gaze over to where the big hedgehog was looking and saw a tan-furred rat holding a spear.  He looked just as surprised as the young mole felt, only he reacted much more quickly.  Turning his head, the big rat yelled something that sounded frighteningly like "here."

Martin's legendary sword flashed, and the Oskneyan fell limp with blood pouring from his neck.  Cursing very foully, Tristan made a move for the direction away from where the Oskneyan voices were coming from.  "Fly!" he shouted.  The Redwallers did not need to be told twice.  They followed Tristan as closely and quickly as they could while the orchard behind them erupted in shouts and war cries.

Yooch ran over a log and he stumbled, the pack he carried slipping from his grasp.  He didn't even have time to look back at it before Brother Chulain pushed him along and barked, "Leave it!"  Yooch did not argue for even a second.

Struggling to keep up, Shilly chanced a look over her shoulder.  Scores of armed beasts could be seen through the trees, and they were moving much faster than the squirrelmaid.  She dropped her pack and kept moving, silently resolving not to look back again.  Except for the weapons Tristan and Chulain carried, the travelers had no supplies now.

There was still hope of escaping the Oskneyans, but it was a very slim one.  Tristan and the Redwallers would easily outrun their heavily armed pursuers, but those pursuers likely had archers with them and they could always follow the tracks in the snow.  Even as Tristan thought about this, an arrow hit a tree not a pwslength from his head.  In a few heartbeats, more arrows flew through the air and all the while there came the blood-curdling war cries of the Oskneyan warriors.

"Don't stop running," the Northlander told his friends.  "Don't slow down!  There should be a village somewhere around here.  If we can reach it, we'll be safe."

"Why?" Chulaing demanded as a pair of shafts struck the ground by his footpaws.  "What in Hellgates is at the village?"

"Help," Tristan replied.  _I hope_, he added silently.  He thought he remembered a few of the regulars talking about Lord Murdoch being asked to help train a militia somewhere in this area.  If that was true, Murdoch probably had a group of soldiers with him and the Oskneayns knew perfectly well what Murdoch was capable of.  They would retreat as soon as they recognized him.  On the other had, if it was just a rumor, they were all as good as dead.

Just when the war cries began to die down and the enemy was starting to tire, Shilly's clothing was snagged by a low-hanging branch.  She cried out and desperately pulled against the branch, trying to escape its grasp.  Brother Chulain stopped suddenly and looked back at the squirrelmaid.  Seeing her predicament, the burly hedgehog rushed back to help her.

"You two keep goin'," he told Yooch and Tristan.  "Me and Shilly'll catch up!"

"Bruvver Chulain—"

"GO!"

With a last, regretful look at Shilly, Tristan pulled Yooch along and the two of them sped off through the cherry trees hardly daring to look again.

"They're coming closer," Shilly whimpered.  The Oskneyan war cries were getting louder and closer.  "Hurry, Brother Chulain, hurry—"

"Hold still!" was the hedgehog's sharp reply.  Dutifully ceasing her anxious squirming, the squirrelmaid tried to stay calm while Chulain struggled to untangle her from the tree branch.  The war cries got closer.

"Almost got ye out o' there," Chulain insisted.  "Just a little more…damn it, I'll just…"  There was a loud cracking sound, and suddenly Shilly could move again.  As if on cue, a gray squirrel appeared and leapt at the pair, brandishing an axe.  Chulain nimbly dodged the blade and brought the ball of his flail down on the enemy's head.

By now it was far too late.  Three more gray squirrels came into view, accompanied by two tan rats and a very big ferret.

"Go.  Now!"  Shilly did as she was told and ran as fast as she could in the direction Tristan and Yooch had disappeared to.  It didn't take her long to notice that Brother Chulain was not running with her.  She was afraid to look back, but she did anyway.  Chulain was fending off the attackers as best he could, bringing down one after another.  The flail's ball was everywhere at once, crashing into shields, helmets, and torsos without discrimination.

"SHILLY, RUN!" he roared.  He let out a growl that could have only come from pain.

With a sob caught in her throat, the young squirrelmaid staggered more than ran from the scene.  She didn't get very far when somebeast caught her from behind and knocked her down.  Strong paws grabbed her and turned her over on her back, revealing an enormous ferret with a wicked grin on his face.  He said something in Oskneyan and produced a rope, which he tried to tie around Shilly's neck.  Desperately the squirrelmaid surged forward and sank her teeth into the brute's arm.

Yelping and pain and then in rage, the big ferret drew back a fist and slammed it into the side of Shilly's face.  She fell limp against the snowy ground and was too dazed to stop the ferret from tying the rope to her neck.  Roughly the vermin dragged the squirrelmaid to her feet.  At that moment she realized that the sounds of fighting had been silenced.

Shilly's point of view allowed her to see why.  Several Oskneyans were lying still on the ground, most never to rise again.  But in the middle of them lay the bloody body of Brother Chulain.  Shilly wasn't sure if she was forming words or not, but she was screaming at the top of her lungs and pulling vainly at the rope that held her to the ferret.  A sharp blow landed on the back of her head, knocking her almost senseless.  Finally giving into despair, Shilly was dragged numbly through the snow as a prisoner of the Oskneyans.

====

Yooch and Tristan were silent.  After coming to the edge of the wood, they stopped and waited for Shilly and Brother Chulain.  They waited until the sun sank below the horizon, when they could no longer stand the cold and built a small fire.  Neither of their friends had come.  Now all they could do was stare at their little flame in total silence and quietly wonder what had happened to their companions.  The possibilities that came to mind were all to unpleasant to linger on.

"I should never have brought you with me," Tristan said quietly.  He didn't take his eyes off of the fire.  "I knew it was dangerous, but I let you come any way.  If it hadn't been for me—"

"Naow don't talk loik that," Yooch interrupted.  "B'ain't no Redwaller wudd let a guddbeast loik ee go oop 'ere all alone.  We only did wot we felt was roight; 'n' oi furr one b'ain't ashamed of et.  Oi know Bruvver Chulain 'n' Shilly wudden be oither."

"Thank you," Tristan said after a lengthy pause.

"Moi plezhur.  …Trizdan, wot do ee think 'appened tur Chulain 'n' Shilly?"

"You don't want me to answer that."

"Oi harf to know.  Iffen oi daon't, oi'll go crazy."

"Are you really sure?"

The mole nodded.

Tristan buried his face in his paws.  "Chulain is dead for sure," he said.  "I know he'd fight the Oskneyans with everything he had, and they'd kill him for it.  If Shilly's alive, she's been enslaved and brought back to their camp.  That's all I can tell you."  He let out a heavy sigh.  "That's the way it is all over the East of Skaramor.  We're losing, Yooch.  Every summer we go out and fight, and every winter we come home with less of our kingdom than we had before.  And Martin's sword…I just don't know how much it can help.  Oh, sure, it's a fine weapon and a powerful symbol.  But what does that really matter?  It won't convince the other kingdoms to join us against the Oskneyans.  All it can do is give our soldiers a little false hope.  And for all the good that will do I might as well have died on the way to Redwall.

Skaramor will fall.  Maybe not this season or the one after that, but sooner or later it will be crushed.  And then I'll be dead or back in slavery, which is the same if you think about it.  And the Oskneyans will attack another kingdom and all of the others will continue to bicker and squabble over land and old blood feuds that don't even matter anymore.  It's hopeless."

It was a long time before Yooch spoke again.  "Do ee think we can rescue Shilly?" he asked.

"Maybe.  Before I left I heard my lord was training a militia for a village somewhere in this area.  If we can find it, we might be able to convince him to help us.  But I'll tell you right now, Yooch, I'm just a common soldier.  I don't know how much weight my word could carry with him."

"We harf to troi, Trizdan.  We harf to."


	12. Soldiers and Prisoners

Settlements always appeared near rivers, and the village where Lord Murdoch was training this militia was likely not an exception. Tristan and Yooch found Broadstream again and followed it for two days with no food and very little rest. Having already been in such a situation earlier that winter, Tristan knew what he would face and how to deal with it, more or less. But for Yooch, who had never missed a meal in his life, it was torture of the very worst sort. More than once the hapless mole collapsed from hunger pangs, but every time that occurred he hauled himself right back up and, with a grumble about never leaving Redwall again, caught up with his friend as fast as he could.

At mid-morning on the third day of the search, the pair stopped at a clearing to rest. It wasn't long before they heard a group of beasts headed their way. They might have been friendly or even from the village Tristan and Yooch were searching for, but neither of them wanted to take any chances and hid behind a large rock before the strangers came into view.

A troop of armed beasts entered the clearing, outfitted with spears, shields, and helmets. They were led by a tough-looking fox holding a battle axe instead of a spear, who held up a paw and said they could rest here a while. That was met with sighs of relief as the warriors sat themselves down and mingled amongst each other. Tristan slid the Sword of Martin into his belt and made to move out of his hiding place.

"What do ee think yurr doin'?" Yooch hissed at his friend in an urgent whisper.

"I'm going over to talk with them," the squirrel replied casually.

"No, don't—Trizdan! _Trizdan__!_" Unable to stop him, Yooch could only watch as Tristan strode up to talk with the armed vermin. Was he really going to talk with them? The very idea was absurd; he'd never be able to fight them all off; they'd tear him to shreds!

The fox's back was turned when Tristan emerged from behind the rock. He didn't even notice the squirrel until he heard pawsteps crunching through the snow behind him. The fox turned and looked surprised, but also a little amused.

"Well, wot've we got 'ere?" the fox asked to nobeast in particular. "Some liddle squirrel decided ter join us?"

"Oh, this squirrel would much rather join an outfit of better company," Tristan replied coolly. "Like slugs or carrion-eating ravens." Despite his limited experience in such matters, Yooch felt sure that this was not a smart thing to say. He saw one of the vermin slowly reaching for his spear… Wait, was that a mouse?

Tristan and the fox continued to give each other hard stares. Then they looked like they were holding in smiles. Then they were grinning broadly, and then they were laughing and embracing like brothers.

"Good ter sees yer again, mate," the fox said.

"You too, Jalryk," Tristan returned.

Yooch cautiously emerged from behind the rock, still very confused by what was happening. He looked around at the warrior beasts and noticed two things: one, they were a little confused themselves; and two…there was not a vermin among them, save for Jalryk the fox. Which begged the question: why were these goodbeasts being led by a vermin?

"Urr, Trizdan," the mole interrupted, "what be'm goin on yurr?"

"Remember I told you how I escaped that enemy lord with another slave?" Tristan responded.

"Oye, that ee did."

"Well, Jalryk here was that other slave."

"Aye, that I was," the fox piped up. "Took an arrer in me arse, but it was worth it. So Tristan, wot brings you ter these parts?"

"This." Tristan withdrew Martin's ancient sword and held it up to where everybeast could see. "I found it, Jalryk. The Sword of Martin the Warrior."

An awed hush fell over the clearing, and everybeast slowly stepped closer to get a closer look at the Sword as if under a spell. The blade caught the sunlight, giving it an almost magical glow.

"Well I'll be," Jalryk said softly. "It exists after all." He reached out and carefully touched the weapon, almost not believing what he was seeing. "We gotta show this to 'Is Lordship. By the way, where's the rest of yer unit?"

"They're dead," Tristan replied in a hollow voice. "We ran into an Oskneyan war party on the way south. I came up here with three other beasts, but the bastards found us again. One of my companions is dead; the other might have been captured."

"Probably means they've got a camp somewhere around 'ere," Jalryk determined. He turned to the beasts he was leading. "Right, yew lazy scum! Move out!"

The Noonvale militia headed back home, while Yooch and Tristan followed behind.

====

Shilly had been dragged through the snow until sunset, when she and her captors finally arrived at the Oskneyan camp. Without being given the opportunity to eat, she had been thrown into a small, dark room and locked in. She didn't know how long she yelled and kicked at the door before she went hoarse and lapsed into slumber. When she woke up, the severity of her situation hit her so hard she began to cry.

If she hadn't insisted on leaving the abbey, this wouldn't have happened. She and Yooch would be safe, Chulain would still be alive…it was all her fault. It was her curiosity, her selfishness, which had gotten her into this situation. All she wanted was to make sure Tristan wouldn't have to face the hardships of the road alone and see what the outside world was like.

Tears and sobbing weren't going to help her, she realized. Now that she was all alone, it was up to her to get out of this crisis. Calming herself a little, she began groping around the cell to see if there was some sort of tool or heavy object she could use to break open the door. Nothing. She decided it was probably just as well, most likely she was being guarded and any attempt to break out was unlikely to succeed.

Perhaps there was a hole or something she could sneak out through. Shilly looked around the room again and found nothing. It looked like she would just have to wait until she was let out of here—she couldn't see any reason why the Oskneyans would let her starve to death in here—and figure something out from there.

For what seemed like an eternity, nothing happened. Shilly just sat in her little cell and waited, thinking about how she might get loose. Tristan said the Oskneyans were fond of keeping captives as slaves, so this camp was probably a place where they could round up helpless creatures and hold them prisoner until the snow melted and they could be taken to some Oskneyan lord or other. She had heard of a place like that listening to travelers.

Tristan and Yooch were unlikely to give up on her, so they would be coming. But how soon, and would they have help?

The door opened at last, flooding the little cell with blinding light. Squinting against the light, Shilly saw the outline of somebeast step inside and crouch down where she was sitting. Once her eyes adjusted, the squirrelmaid saw that her visitor was one of the tan-colored rats.

"I am Einar Nimble-Tongue," the rat said with an odd accent. "Let me tell you something: we can be tolerant jailors, or we can make you wish you were dead. It is up to you to decide which we shall be. Do you understand?" Shilly nodded. "Goot. If you do as I say and cause no mischief, you will have no problems. Now, you will come with me."

The squirrelmaid allowed herself to be led out of the little room and through the camp. There were Oskneyans everywhere; they were milling about, up on watch towers, trying to look busy (Shilly knew enough about work to recognize when somebeast was trying to get out of it), or just loafing around. The entire perimeter was surrounded by a wooden palisade with sharpened points on the top. Watch towers dotted the length of the barrier; there were maybe ten or twelve in all.

Shilly's destination was a very large cage where a score of forlorn-looking beasts were kept—the squirrelmaid did not need to be told that they were slaves. There were many goodbeasts there, but also foxes, rats, and a tough-looking weasel. Shilly was shoved into the cage, and the gate slammed behind her.

"New arrival, I see," the weasel said.

"No talk!" a guard snapped. Not a word was spoken after that.

Shilly found a spot in the cage and sat down. Einar Nimble-Tongue didn't know it, but he had made a very big mistake. He told Shilly not to cause mischief. And if there was one thing Shilly knew, it was how to cause mischief.

====

Tristan was a little surprised to learn that Lord Murdoch's troops were not allowed in the village proper, but right now he had more urgent concerns. Finding Murdoch and convincing him to help rescue Shilly was foremost in his mind. He, Yooch, Jalryk and the militiabeasts arrived at the wolf lord's camp around midday and found some very unhappy-looking soldiers. They were grumbling cursing, and talking about how they never should have come here.

"What's going on?" one of the militiabeasts wondered aloud.

"Beats me," Jalryk answered. "Hey, Aonghas! Wot 'appened? Why's everybeast look like they ate bad stew?"

A hare trudged over to where Jalryk's group had just arrived. "Did ye no' hear?" he asked.

"Course I didn't 'ear! I've been out with me class 'ere on a run all morning!"

"Well, ye won't have tae do that anymore. Padraig Voh is stoppin' the trainin'. For good."

"_WHAT!?_" That was not Jalryk's voice; it came from the other side of the camp. And it belonged to none other than Lord Murdoch himself.

"Ah see 'is Lordship just got the word," Aonghas remarked. A green-clad, elderly mole was seen getting thrown through the air with a frightened yell. Less than a heartbeat later, a massive figure wearing a crimson cloak charged over the snow-covered ground and headed straight for the village.

"I wonder if he'll kill the chieftain?" Jalryk wondered. His former class chuckled before they realized that the fox was not joking.

====

Murdoch didn't have to worry about running into anybeast; all of the villagers of Noonvale screamed and gave him a wide berth as soon as he came into view. He hardly noticed this; rage clouded his thoughts and made him forget about everything but finding Padraig Voh. In a very short time he was at the elders' meeting house, his path blocked by two hedgehogs from the militia.

One of them held out a paw, as if he thought it would really stop an angry wolf. "Hold," he said in an imperious tone. "I'm sorry, but I can't let you pass."

The wolf lord did not even slow down. He crashed between the hedgehogs and threw them in either direction before kicking down the door of the chieftain's hut. Voh had been calmly sitting at the table, chatting with some of the other elders, when he saw Murdoch looming in the doorway and let his jaw drop in fear.

"_You_," the wolf growled. "You ungrateful, backstabbing _bastard!_" He stormed threateningly over to where the old mouse was sitting.

"N-now, Murdoch, c-calm down," Voh stammered while getting out of his chair.

"Oh, ye want me tae calm doon? Then tell me, _chieftain_, why did ye break the blasted agreement!?"

"S-simple, really. I decided that the militia had been trained well enough to ensure Noonvale's safety if the Oskneyans—"

"The Oskneyans don't give a damn aboot what you decide, ye old twit!" Murdoch roared. "And neither do I; the agreement was that ah wid train yaer militia until _I_ thought they were done!"

"Well, you may be proud of the fact that you have trained them very well," Voh responded stiffly. "But I have seen the change your presence has brought about in Noonvale, and I must say that I don't care much for it."

"Och, so noo we're villains, are we?"

"That's not what I said."

"It's what ye bloody well _meant_!" Murdoch's fist slammed into the table, leaving a very visible dent in the wood. He took a deep breath to try and calm his nerves. "If ye want tae go back on the deal, _fine_. We'll leave. But know this," he added, holding up a claw for emphasis, "ye owe Skaramor a debt. Sooner or later, Skaramor will come to collect."

With that, the wolf lord of Byrnach turned and stormed out of the room. When he was sure that he had gone, Padraig Voh released the breath he had been holding and collapsed into his chair, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

====

After two days in the cold without food, it felt good to have a hot meal again. Yooch devoured the stew he had been served with a gusto, reveling in its warmth and enjoying the felling it gave his previously empty stomach. Tristan was informing his fellow soldiers of his adventures in Mossflower, starting with the mission his unit received and leading up to the narrow escape from the Oskneyan warband.

"Is Redwall really like that, Yooch?" somebeast inquired.

The young mole pulled his face from his bowl. "Umm?" he replied.

"I just can't help but wonder if Tristan here is pulling our legs." The speaker was a rat. "Does your home really have all those feasts and festivals and such?"

"Oh, yes, zurr. And they'm be foine vittles we harf."

"And nobeast has any weapons?"

"Well, we harf ee Sword of Martin, but Trizdan yurr has et naow."

"Remarkable…just remarkable…" the rat was lost inhis own whisperings.

"Look alive troops," somebeast commanded. "Lordship on the grounds!"

All eyes turned to where a fuming Murdoch could be seen stomping through the snow. Yooch had heard that wolves were big, but he never imagined that they were _this_ big. The wolf lord was a full head taller than any other beast around, and his broad shoulders and billowing cloak only added to the impressiveness of the sight. Cold eyes swept their gaze over every living thing in Murdoch's sight, making the winter air even colder than it had been before.

"Pack up the camp and get ready to move oot!" His voice was clear and powerful, immediately demanding compliance. In only a hearbeat, every soldier was up and moving. No questions were asked; everybeast had expected this order. The only creatures not working were Yooch and Tristan, who tentatively walked up to Murdoch to make their request, not sure how he would respond.

"My lord…" Tristan began.

"Yes yes, what is it?" the wolf lord snapped. His expression changed from one of anger and frustration to one of mild surprise as he turned to face the squirrel. "Ah dunnae recognize ye, lad. Are ye one of mah soldiers?"

"I am, sir. My name is Tristan, of the 4th Byrnach Scout Patrol. You sent us south to find the Sword of Martin the Warrior, if it still existed."

"Aye," Murdoch said, comprehension dawning. "Aye, there were a score of ye. Where are the rest?"

"Gone, sir. I am the only survivor."

Murdoch muttered an impressive string of obscenities under his breath as Tristan related the story he had told so many times, describing the Oskneyan ambush that had taken so many soldiers' lives. "Well?" the lord asked abruptly. "Were ye successful, did ye fahnd the sword?"

"Aye, my lord." Tristan produced the legendary blade and presented it to his lord. "Just as the stories said, Martin went south and founded an abbey called Redwall. That's where I found it. The abbess there told me that…well, she was willing to give me the sword. I would have been here much sooner, but I was in very poor health by the time I finally arrived at Redwall and the beasts there insisted that I stay for a while to recover."

Murdoch nodded. "Ah see," he said. "How can I trust ye?"

Now _that_ was unexpected. Yooch started to get nervous and absently pulled his necklace out of his tunic and started fiddling with it.

"My lord?" Tristan asked nervously.

"Ah will no' believe a word o' this until ah see some proof you actually were at Redwall and didnae just find some sword and take it back here."

"Well, Yooch here is actually _from_ Redwall, my lord. He can tell you all about…" Tristan's voice trailed off meekly.

"That's no'—" Murdoch was about to rebuke the squirrel when he saw the necklace Yooch was holding. "What the blazes…"

"Hurr?" The young mole did not feel comfortable to have those cold eyes fixed on him.

"That necklace," the wolf started.

"Oh, urr, this'n be moine, zurr. Oi packed et afore we left so oi wudd harf summat from home to amember." It was a simple bauble, a medallion with a chain. But on the medallion was a carving of a wall and tower, painted red.

"_Look for the sign of Redwall Abbey_," Murdoch whispered. "All right, soldier, ah believe ye. Keep the sword. It's years tae wield." He turned on his footpaw and began to walk away.

"Umm, zurr?" Yooch interrupted. The wolf stopped and turned back to address the question. "On aour way oop yurr we wurr attacked 'again boi ee Oskneyans."

"They have a camp in this region," Murdoch guessed.

"Aye, my lord," Tristan said. "And we lost two of our companions; one of them was probably taken prisoner—"

"Say no more," the wolf lord interrupted. He strode over to a large rock and hopped up on it. "All right lads, listen up!" he roared. All activity ceased, all eyes turned on to him. "It look slike the Oskneyans have a camp somewhere in this area. Shall we pay them a visit?"

All of the soldiers in the camp shouted out an enthusiastic chorus of "ayes."

"If you insist," Murdoch said simply. He hopped off the rock with a satisfied smile on his face and went to make plans for the rescue.


	13. The Conspiritors

Shilly did not like the slave camp. Backbreaking labor was required of her every hour of the day, she was given only enough food to keep her alive, and many of the gray squirrels gave her looks that made the squirrelmaid very, very nervous. She learned from the other prisoners why the camp was the way it was: all of the hardship was meant to break the spirit of any slave before they were sold off. That way they wouldn't rise up in revolt. At the end of winter, this camp would get up and leave for Oskneyan lands, where the slaves would be sent to market.

But at least Shilly's plan was gong forward. These past few days she had slipped away when she wasn't being watched. It was harder to do that here than at Redwall; the first time she tried it the overseers saw her and beat her into unconsciousness. She later found out that they would have beaten her to death if one of the other prisoners, an otter, had not stepped forward and diverted their attention. The courageous otter was badly bruised, but he was alive and had Shilly's eternal gratitude.

Now the squirrelmaid was much more adept at sneaking around. In a few days she had rigged a complex—and, she thought, rather ingenious—surprise for the Oskneyans. They would be sorry for killing Brother Chulain, very sorry indeed.

The prisoners talked amongst themselves whenever they could, which was usually late at night when the guards were not as alert. Any conversations were held in hushed voices as a precaution against being overheard. This was especially true when there was talk of escape.

The otter who had saved Shilly and the tough-looking weasel she had met her first day in the pen were essentially the leaders of the group. They collected information about guard rotations, weak points in the camp's perimeter, and which of the Oskneyans could be overpowered and which of them could not. The two had a grudging respect for each other and were looked up to by the other slaves. Shilly was unaware of there nightly planning until one night when they woke her with their conversation.

"Lookit that guard there," the weasel hissed to the otter. "Sleeping like a babe, just leaning against the pen. If I could get me paw around 'is throat, I could slay 'im right now and get the keys!"

"Don't bother, mate," the otter replied. "I saw a rat try that same thing not a week before you arrived. The guard didn't have the keys on 'im, and it weren't pretty wot the Oskneyans did to the rat when they found out wot 'e did."

"Well we've got ter do _summat_," the weasel growled. "Winter's gonna end sometime. And then we're done fer."

"What we need if a way to create confusion," whispered an aging mouse sitting by them. "If we can sow some chaos in the camp, we'll have an opportunity to break out."

"Oh golly, I never thought o' that," the weasel grumbled sarcastically. "And just 'ow are we gonna do that?"

"Excuse me," Shilly whispered. All eyes turned toward her. "I'm sorry; I couldn't help but overhear," she continued, "and I think I have a way we can catch the Oskneyans off guard." She proceeded to explain the work she had done during her time in the camp, and what it would do.

"That's brilliant," the mouse gasped. "Heh, the villains won't know what hit them!"

"One problem though," the otter broke in. "It won't be easy ter get ter the trigger. We'll need a distraction ter get ter the distraction."

"Don't worry," Shilly replied cheerily. "Two of my friends are out there somewhere, and as soon as they find help, they'll come to our rescue!"

The weasel snorted out a muffled laugh. "Yer livin' a fairy story, you are," he sneered. "There ain't nobeast comin' ter rescue us. We're all alone 'ere."

"Oh, come now," the mouse admonished. "Don't be so negative. Tell me, lass, what help will your friends bring?"

"One of them is a soldier. I think he said his lord's name was Murdoch—"

"Murdoch!" the mouse gasped, so loud he almost woke the sleeping guard. "Great seasons, are you sure?"

"I think so."

"Wot's all this about Murdoch?" the otter demanded.

"Lord Murdoch mac Byrnach is the most feared commander in Skaramor," the mouse explained. "Half of his command is made of beasts who have lived under the Oskneyans' lash, and they fight the invaders with all the ferocity you would expect from that. They would never pass up an opportunity to strike at a slave camp such as this one. I'm sorry, little one; it appears we forgot to introduce ourselves. I am Polin, formerly a hermit in these parts, and the weasel there is called Bloodnose, and the otter's name is Raff."

"I'm Shilly," the squirrelmaid replied, and shook paws all around. "Pleased to meet all of you."

"Likewise," Polin answered. "Tell me, Shilly, have you seen much violence in your life?"

"Um, no."

"Then you had best brace yourself. Because when Murdoch's lads get here—and they will—it will not be a pretty sight."

xxxx

After many long weeks of baby-sitting a tiny village's militia, a real fight seemed like a dream come true for Murdoch's soldiers. Eagerly they ploughed through the woods and snow, as Tristan and Yooch searched industriously for any familiar landmarks that might lead them to the Oskneyan camp.

It was not a very fruitful search. It seemed as though every inch of the forest was the same as any other; the only landmark being a fallen tree that _may_ have been one the four travelers passed. Pawprints were nowhere to be found, as freshly fallen snow obliterated any trace of them.

And then Tristan found the very spot that the party had gotten separated. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a piece of cloth hanging from a tree branch. It matched the color of Shilly's smock exactly.

Hurriedly he dashed over to the shred and plucked it from the tree. He was too focused on it to notice Yooch and Murdoch coming up to see what he had found.

"What've ye got there, soldier?" the wolf lord asked.

"Shilly's clothing caught on a tree while we were running," Tristan explained. "This is a piece of it right here. Chulain stayed behind to help her and told me and Yooch to keep going..."

"Es that him?" Murdoch pointed over to a mound in the snow. Receiving no response from either Tristan or Yooch, he strode over and brushed the snow away to reveal the face of a dead hedgehog.

"Bruvver Chulain," Yooch whimpered. "O no..."

"At least he went doon fahting," Murcoh remarked solemnly. "Looket that—four other mounds in the snow, and ah'll wager every one of them's an Oskneyan. Noo then, Tristan, which way were ye goin?"

"We were running to the west," the squirrel replied in a slow voice. "So the camp will be east of here. –Yooch, what are you doing!?"

The young mole was sweeping industriously at the snow-covered bodies, not stopping until each one was completely uncovered. When he was finished, he fell to his knees at started breathing heavily. "Shilly b'ain't yurr," he quavered. "She'm aloive..." Tears of relief started to roll down his face. Tristan walked over and placed a paw on his shoulder.

"I know," he said. "Now all we need to do is go get her."

"Et's getting late," Murdoch observed, looking at the sky. "We'll rest here for tonight, bury your friend, and in the morning we'll pay thoos bastards a little veset."

xxxx

Tristan spent most of that night alone. He didn't eat and slept only a few hours, reflecting over all that had happened in his life. It seemed like everyone he ever cared about met with disaster. First his father had been killed and the rest of his family enslaved. He had seen his little brother beaten to death right before his very eyes. Then almost all of the slaves he had escaped with were killed. Just this winter his unit was slaughtered to a beast. And now Chulain was dead and Shilly in a slave camp.

If anything happened to her, Tristan didn't know what he would do. Shilly never hurt anybeast; she didn't deserve what happened to her. From the moment he first met her, he felt almost at peace. She had this air of innocence about her, an optimism that never seemed to fade. If the rescue was not successful... No. It had to succeed. Tristan could not imagine any other outcome.

Somehow he managed to get some sleep that night. In the morning, he and the other soldiers marched east.

xxxx

Once they had seen all they could from their hiding places, Murdoch's scouts climbed down from the trees near the Oskneyan camp and made their way back to report to the wolf lord.

Murdoch's force had stopped in the forest, just out of sight of the camp. Many of the threescore soldiers were getting jumpy, eagerly awaiting the chance to fight again. It wasn't easy to keep them from charging headlong into battle, but they were assured that the time would come eventually. So they stayed put and waited.

The scouts arrived around midday and were subjected to a number of inquiries about the strength of the enemy, the size of the camp, and most frequently, when the attack would come.

"Away wid ye," Murdoch told them, plowing through the crowd to reach the scouts. "Give 'em some air, let them talk." He waited until his orders were obeyed. "All right, you lot," he said to the scouts, "what does et look lahk?"

"The camp is fairly large," Tristan began. He took his spear and drew a design in the snow to follow what he was saying. "The perimeter is a wooden palisade, with six watch posts stationed around it. There are two gates, one at the north end and one at the south. There are maybe a hundred guards in all, but they didn't look like regulars. Mostly slavers."

"Babe's play!" a soldier called out. Murdoch barked at him and told him to be quiet before asking the scouts to go on.

Another scout, a shrew, pointed at a place in the design in the snow. "The slave pen is here," he stated. "There's maybe a score of beasts there, three of which looked like they could put up a stout fight if they had the chance. And I wouldn't swear by it, sir, but I believe that a lord has taken up residence there."

"What meks ye say that?"

"Well, one building in the west part of the camp looked like it was meant for living, But the barracks is here, in the center. Oskneyans always put all of their barracks in the center. And I caught a glimpse of a coat-of-arms by that west building. It looked like a skull with a metal rod struck through it."

"That wid be Olaf Iron-Rod," Murdoch declared. "Ah heard he retreated prematurely at Cannelbrae thes past summer. Blood-Tooth probably put him here as a punishment."

He went on, but Tristan was no longer listening. The beast who murdered his brother was only a short march away. After all these years, revenge would finally be his.

"We dunnae have enough numbers tae launch a frontal attack," Murdoch said. Tristan snapped out of his trance long enough to hear the orders.

"All raht, lads, here's what we'll do..."


	14. Attack!

Guard duty was always boring, especially at night. At least in the day there was scenery to look at, but the night shift had only darkness. What was the point, anyway? It's not like the camp would be attacked any time soon; it was in the middle of nowhere! Far away from the front, no hostile tribes in the region—the Oskneyans could have gotten away with no watch shifts at all.

These were the thoughts a big ferret called Sarn entertained as he stood pointlessly on his watch tower, torch in paw. He couldn't wait to go home, where proper ale and food awaited him by the warmth and comfort of the hearth, served by his dependable slave. Sarn and his family had long been considering buying another slave, as the one they had now was getting old and slow. No matter; the ferret had already found one in the camp that would serve him well. His eyes wandered over to the slave pen, where he could almost make the beast out.

It was a timid mole that had caught Sarn's eye. The creature quickly complied with any command given, rarely spoke, and made some very amusing noises when he was beaten. Sarn grinned hungrily. Yes, that mole would make a good slave indeed.

A moving torch caught Sarn's attention, bringing the ferret out of his reverie. A group of guards opened the slave pen and motioned for one of the captives to come with them. When the chosen slave walked into the torchlight, Sarn saw that it was the squirrelmaid that had come here almost a week ago. Apparently Lord Olaf had decided to have some fun with her. She wasn't half bad-looking; if she had been a ferret Sarn wouldn't have minded some fun with her himself.

But, since the maiden was a squirrel and Sarn was just a lowly guard, he would have to wait until he got home to satisfy himself. He turned his gaze back to the darkness of the night, catching a glimpse of one of the other watch towers. The guard there was slumped over and leaning against the rail. Apparently old Bruno had fallen asleep on the job. It looked like there was something sticking out of his head—

And arrow! There was an arrow in Bruno's head! Ye gods, the camp was under attack! Sarn turned to the main body of the camp and drew in a breath to shout the alarm. Before he could do that, though, three shafts slammed into his back in quick succession. The big ferret made a low, shocked noise and crumpled to the wooden floor of his tower. He was dead in moments, with nobeast bearing witness to his last breath.

Meanwhile, in the dark of the night outside the camp, Murdoch's archers crept around to each of the watch towers, silently eliminating each and every guard they saw.

xxxx

Shilly didn't know why she had been pulled out of the slave pen, but it was very clear that nothing good was going to happen to her. Raff, Polin and Bloodnose all looked very worried about this new development and Polin had told her to "stay strong." Nobeast told anybeast to "stay strong" unless something was horribly wrong.

The guards led her around the dark camp, occasionally prodding her with the butt of their spears to keep her moving. The squirrelmaid could hardly tell which part of the camp she was in now; she felt pretty sure she had never been here before but couldn't be entirely certain. Eventually she and her escorts reached their destination, a building with a banner over the door. Despite the torchlight, Shilly couldn't make out what was on the banner.

Inside was a room decorated with sculptures of precious metals and baubles studded with jewels. A great hearth housed a roaring fire, bathing the room in warmth. Shilly closed her eyes and savored the feeling; this was the first time in weeks that she had been in a warm room.

Also in the room was a large high-backed chair upon which sat a great fat gray squirrel dressed in fine clothing. Einar Nimble-Tongue was at the gray squirrel's side, looking stoic as ever. With a wave of his paw, the gray squirrel dismissed the guards, and they closed the door behind them as the left.

"You vill kneel," Einar instructed Shilly. "You are in the presence of Olaf Iron-Rod, who is lort of Grauberg." Shilly stood for a moment, taking this in.

"Kneel!" the tan rat snapped. This time the squirrelmaid complied. "Goot," Einar said. "Now Lort Olaf vill speak, and I vill translate his vords. You vould be vise to show respect."

The fat gray squirrel cleared his throat. "Greetings," he said through Einar. "I am Olaf Iron-Rod, lord of Grauberg and this camp. I do not often invite slaves into my presence. You should be flattered.

I am a great and powerful lord, and my favor is most beneficial to those who can earn it. I am sure you would like to earn it, would you not?"

Shilly was starting to worry; Olaf was giving her the same look many other gray squirrels had given her. Still, she tried to put on a brave front. "I don't see why I would need the favor of a beast who builds himself up by enslaving others," she said crisply.

The slave lord merely laughed. "You are young and naïve," he responded. "That is most amusing. However, the young and naïve will not get far in the world. The strong shall rule and the weak shall be ruled. That is the way of the world. In time, you will come to accept this."

"If the weak are to be ruled," Shilly retorted, "then you must be very worried about your position."

For a moment, Einar said nothing. He was too shocked that anybeast would say such a thing to his lord. Was this squirrelmaid mad? Did she have any idea of what Olaf would do to a beast who spoke to him like that?

"_Voss hot zie gesprecht_?" Olaf demanded. Einar swallowed hard and translated Shilly's words.

Whereas the tan rat was able to understand the maiden's meaning immediately, it took Olaf significantly longer to figure it out. When he did, though, he was absolutely furious. He wedged himself out of the high-backed chair, pulled out his metal rod, and stormed over to the insolent squirrelmaid. Shilly braced herself for the blow but never expected it would be so hard.

She was sent sprawling to the floor, her mind numbed by the force of the blow to her head. She could feel her body being kicked again and again while Olaf shrieked curses in the Oskneyan tongue. He stopped at about the same time Shilly's mind began to clear. Einar walked calmly over and whispered into the squirrelmaid's ear.

"Now," he said hungrily, "you will be taught some respect for your superiors." He would relish the spectacle that was coming. Olaf pinned Shilly to the floor, and her heart began pounding furiously in her chest out of utter panic.

But Olaf never got the chance to teach Shilly that lesson. Outside the lord's quarters, somebeast was screaming bloody murder, and the sound was coming closer. A tan rat burst in just then, babbling away in Oskneyan. Olaf snarled at him, but the screamer was insistent. The fat gray squirrel stood upright and started to snarl some more, but the tan rat let out a painful shriek and collapsed to the floor. An arrow was protruding from his lower back.

Chaos followed. The guards who were waiting outside the door rushed in, stepping over the hapless messenger, and asked something of their lord. Iron-Rod barked at them and pointed wildly towards the outside, sending the guards rushing off. The lord himself kicked the wounded rat out of the way and slammed the door shut. He crouched down, bracing his body against the portal, and started to breathe heavily. At first Shilly intended to ask what was going on, but the answer came to her on its own.

Tristan had come to rescue her!

xxxx

"Great seasons, what on earth is going on!?" Polin demanded of nobeast in particular. All around the slave pen, Oskneyans were running around like madbeasts, scurrying to one post or another. A second look revealed that this was the situation all over the camp. Just a moment ago he had been drifting off to sleep, and now everybeast was acting like it was the end of the world.

"Beats me, mate," Raff told his friend. "But if'n I 'ad to guess, I'd say Murdoch's lads found the camp."

"Well how d'ya like that?" Bloodnose broke in. "That liddle squirrellass was tellin' the truth!"

"Aye, it looks like she was," Polin agreed. "Now if we can get to the surprise Shilly rigged, we can really—oh no. Shilly forgot to tell us where it is!"

Bloodnose hurried up to the fence enclosing the slave pen and waited with a calculating look on his face. When a gray squirrel came running past, the weasel reached through the holes in the fence and seized the Oskneyan by the throat. He pulled his captive up against the fence and held him there by the neck with both paws. The gray squirrel was thrashing wildly, but it was in vain: with all of the commotion, none of his comrades noticed his predicament. It wasn't long before he stopped thrashing forever.

Taking the key ring off the corpse, Bloodnose hurried over to the gate of the pen and unlocked it. Throwing the portal open, he laughed and tackled the closest Oskneyan he could find. Meanwhile, Raff dashed over to the slain gray squirrel and took the spear he had dropped.

"Come on, lads!" he shouted to the other slaves. "Let's get out of here!" The captives who still had enough spirit in them to fight surged out of the pen and set upon the Oskneyan Bloodnose was fighting. In moments the weasel and Polin joined Raff. Bloodnose had an axe in his paw and blood on his fur.

"Right, mates, this is it," Raff told them. "Bloodnose, you try to find the armory and get these beasts some weapons. Polin and I will head to Olaf's quarters. That's gotta be where they took Shilly."

"Been waitin' fer this fer a long time," Bloodnose said with a savage grin. He turned to the other slaves. "Right, you idjits, foller me! Let's find us some bloody weapons!" A great cheer rose up, and the newly freed captives charged off into the chaos while Raff and Polin sped off to find Olaf's quarters.

xxxx

Drog was starting to worry. He was on the other side of the camp from the main attack force, and his archers were running low on ammunition. He had no way of knowing if Murdoch's command had broken into the camp yet. All he and his troops could do was shoot any guards who appeared on the watch towers and keep up the appearance that the attack was coming from his side of the perimeter.

"Save yore arrers!" he bellowed. "Don't loose until yer see a target!"

He didn't know if he had been heard; everybeast around him was shouting war cries to make it seem like there were more of them than there really was. In the woods behind them, scores of torches had been lit and stuck in the ground where the Oskneyans could see the flames but not the imaginary beasts they thought were holding them. It was a superb illusion—one Drog didn't know if he could maintain for much longer.

xxxx

Meanwhile, on the southern side of the camp, the watch towers were silent and empty. There would be nobeast to respond to the attack that was about to be launched—at least at first. If Murdoch's plan was to succeed, Tristan and three other scouts would have to climb over the camp's palisade and open the gate from inside. A great oak tree had been felled for the task, which was even now being moved into position.

Scores of Skaramorian soldiers carried the oak on their shoulders. Following Murdoch's orders, they made as little noise as possible. A few others had dug a small trench, and the trunk of the great tree had been sharpened to a dull point. Starting off at a slow run, the soldiers carrying the tree charged toward the trench and dropped the pointed end of the oak into it.

The tree, carried by momentum, was stood upright for a moment, then leaned over and slammed into the pointed top of the camp's palisade, the canopy landing right next to a watch tower. Immediately Tristan and the other scouts charged up the oak and over the wall.

They met no resistance. It was a simple matter to claw their way to the platform of the tower, climb down, and remove the gate's crossbar without the Oskneyans ever knowing what was happening. Murdoch himself was the first one through, his bastard sword in paw and shield at the ready.

"Good job, lads," he remarked casually. "Noo let's go tae work." The other warriors poured through the gate with alarming speed. Since the need for secrecy had ended and they could contain themselves no longer, they broke out into a fearsome chorus of war cries and eager laughter.

_Let them have their fun_, Tristan thought to himself. _I have my own plan_. He separated from the rest of the group and set off in search of two beasts: Shilly—and Olaf Iron-Rod.

xxxx

For the moment, it looked like Olaf had forgotten about Shilly. He stayed crouched against the door, bracing it so that nobeast could break in. Einar simply paced back and forth, waiting for something to happen. Shilly just sat in one spot on the floor and did not move. Sooner or later, she knew, somebeast would come to rescue her.

There was a knocking at the door. Somebeast said something in Oskneyan and Olaf replied. The stranger said something again, and carefully the fat gray squirrel got up and opened the door just a crack. He screamed and tried to shut it again, but it burst open anyway and Olaf was knocked down. Standing in the doorway was Raff, armed with a spear.

Olaf scrambled away with remarkable speed, yelling at Einar as he went. The translator produced an axe from his belt and lunged at the otter, swinging his weapon in a wide arc. Raff blocked it with the shaft of his spear so that the axe handle was caught instead of the blade. He forced Einar's axe away from him and dealt the rat a blow to the head so harsh the spear almost broke. Einar crumpled to the ground and did not move.

Raff turned to Shilly and grinned broadly. "Miss me?" he asked. The squirrelmaid said nothing; she just ran over and hugged him.

"Oh, so I get no affection?" Polin asked as he stepped in. Shilly squealed and threw her arms around him, too.

"Right now, we better get moving," Raff told them. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. "Damn! That fat coward up and ran off!"

Olaf was gone. A secret door that at first glance looked just like another section of the wall was left open, leading to the outside.

"Never mind about him," Polin urged. "We need to get to Shilly's trap!"

"Polin's right, Raff," Shilly said. "Come on, let's go!" They ran out into the night, where the cries and shouts were even louder than before. Shilly led her friends through the camp, trying to make sense of where she was and how to get to the trigger she had rigged. A pair of Oskneyan guards found them, and with a great cry charged at the trio with weapons drawn.

"I'll take care o' these blackguards," Raff told the others. "You two go on ahead!" He let loose a cry of his own and met the enemy head on. Polin and Shilly did not wait to find out what happened to the courageous otter. They just kept on running.


	15. The Morning After

Murdoch yanked his sword free of an Oskneyan skull and took a short moment to survey the situation around him.

From what the scouts had said, the wolf lord guessed that he and his troops were close to the center of the Oskneyan camp. Resistance had become fiercer now that the guards had figured out where the real attack was coming from. A few of the enemy had put together a shield-wall, but a quick strike from Aonghas and his pikebeasts put an abrupt end to it.

Murdoch felt something whiz by his ear and didn't take long to figure out what it was. The Oskneyans had archers, and they were using them.

"Arroos!" he roared. No other order was needed; his soldiers were too experienced to require them. The band of Skaramorians huddled together so that their shields overlapped. The front rank of fighters crouched down to provide better protection. It was the standard formation to protect against an arrow storm—hard for archers to dismantle, but the warriors who took such a position wouldn't be able to move very fast.

Unfortunately, the Oskneyan archers were close—close enough so that some of the arrows they fired punched through the Skaramorians' shields. This was bad; in order to advance on the without unreasonable risk Murdoch and his beasts would need a distraction, something to sow a little chaos into the archers' ranks.

But what?

xxxx

Olaf slinked around the palisade, avoiding the fighting like the plague. It was clear the fighting was toward the southern part of the camp, so it would be a simple matter to sneak through the northern gate and make his way back to Oskney from there. He still wasn't sure what he would tell his king, but he didn't care right now. All that mattered was staying alive.

He made his way to the corner of a building and peeked around it. Good, his archers were keeping the attackers pinned down under a hail of arrows. He would escape and live another day.

With an effort far greater than a physically fit beast would require, Olaf heaved the northern gate's crossbar out of its resting place and threw open his path to safety.

The last thing he saw was a group of Skaramorian archers unleashing a storm of arrows at him.

xxxx

The trigger to Shilly's brainchild was located in the kitchens. Many long years of making mischief at Redwall had taught the squirrelmaid a number of things. Among them was that some kinds of food and drink burned very easily—and some could even be explosive under the proper circumstances. She had found a few of these items while working in the kitchens, and they were the key to her surprise.

Shilly and Polin found nobeast in there, so they had all the time in the world. The squirrelmaid fumbled around in the dark until the found a taught string—then she took a nearby knife and cut it in two.

"We need to get out of here!" she yelled at Polin. The old mouse did not stop to ask questions. He followed his friend outside, where a spectacular sight awaited them.

A spoon and some flint, formerly held in place by the string were struck together to make a spark which ignited an open barrel of ale. From there the spoon kept moving and punctured a bag of flour. Flour could burn, and when the little grains of it were scattered into the air it could explode. The kitchens erupted into flames, breaking down the wall nearest to the flour and cracking the ones around it.

But it didn't end there. The flames severed another string, which activated another mechanism in another nearby structure. It too burst into flames.

"It worked!" Polin shouted triumphantly. His jubilation was interrupted, however, when a piece of the wall came crashing toward him. He barely had time to lunge out of the way. For a terrifying moment, Shilly couldn't see if her friend was all right. She called out his name.

"I'm all right!" the old mouse shouted. He appeared on the other side of the burning piece of wreckage, singed but otherwise fine. All of a sudden his jaw dropped and he started pointing wildly behind the squirrelmaid. "Look out!" he cried.

Shilly turned around just in time to see Einar Nimble-Tongue charging at her with his axe held high above his head. The tan rat let out a blood-curdling scream and swung madly at the squirrelmaid, missing her by several inches but startling her enough to make her trip over herself and fall to the ground. Einar, bleeding where Raff had struck him, slowly raised his battle-axe to kill Shilly.

Out of nowhere a spear flew through the air and landed squarely in the Oskneyan's side. He shrieked horribly and was knocked over by a figure that soared over the burning piece of the wall, wielding a brilliant gleaming sword. Einar yanked the spear out of his body, got up and flailed his axe at this new combatant. Shilly's savior blocked each blow easily, finally severing the axe handle from its head and running the rat through with his great sword. Einar made one last gagging noise, then fell limp against the ground and died.

Even with the flames, Shilly couldn't make out the features of the beast who had saved her. She didn't need to. The presence of Martin's sword was feature enough for her.

"Tristan!" she squealed. She leapt to her footpaws and threw her arms around him. He returned the favor.

"Sorry I'm late," he said.

"It doesn't matter," Shilly replied softly. "I knew you'd come for me."

Tristan did not say anything. He just held Shilly tighter.

xxxx

Now this was more like it. Murdoch didn't know why those buildings burst into flame, but the development was so surprising that the Oskneyan archers ceased loosing their shafts. That would be the last mistake they ever made.

"_Charge!_" Murdoch howled. The Skaramorians surged forward as a whole, shouting war cries and overrunning the last little resistance the Oskneyans could present. The battle was quickly joined by a ragtag group of beasts, probably slaves. They had managed to find weapons, how or why the wolf lord didn't care. In a matter of heartbeats the Oskneyans were surrounded. Many threw down their weapons and tried to surrender, but after denying so many beasts mercy, they would receive none themselves.

The slavers' last cries of pain and fear would have been horrible for most beasts to hear, but Murdoch didn't mind them one bit.

xxxx

Dawn came quietly and peacefully over the land. A carpet of clean, freshly fallen snow covered the ground, erasing all traces of pawsteps. The only sounds were the chirping of the birds and a few voices from the soldiers and the now-free slaves. And the stench of death was everywhere, a constant reminder of the previous night.

Jalryk and a group of soldiers and former slaves finished setting fire to what was left of the Oskneyans and their camp and ambled back to where they were resting for the time being. It was a hodgepodge of crowded tents and lean-tos that sheltered all of the survivors of last night's battle. Many of the freed slaves were unsure of what they would do now. Most had never been in this part of the region before and didn't know how to find their way back home—assuming home was still there. A few had volunteered to join the army of Skaramor, others had heard about Noonvale and decided it would be a fine place to live.

Yooch had let his curiosity get the better of him and was wounded in the leg by a stray arrow when he wandered too close to the fighting. The shaft hadn't gone very deep; the otter who was tending to the young mole assured him that it would be a simple matter to remove it.

So there he was, obeying the healer's instructions and lying comfortably on the ground with a few other wounded beasts nearby. The burning pain that had tortured him when the arrow first hit him had been replaced by a dull ache that was bothersome but far from torture. He watched curiously as a spry shrew darted about the patients, asking them questions and assisting the otter healer.

He came over to Yooch quickly and casually, asking the young mole how he felt, was the pain from the arrow getting worse, and then called over to the otter and announced that Yooch was ready to have his arrow taken out.

"Perfect," the healer said. "You get the whiskey and I'll get the poker." These instructions had Yooch a little confused. Whenever Sister Martha fixed a wound back at Redwall, she always used an herb poultice and a bandage. Why did the healer want whiskey? And what possible use would a poker be in this situation?

The answer was not pleasant. The otter ambled over to a campfire and withdrew from it a red-hot poker, murmuring, "Ah, there's me beauty." The shrew appeared with a bottle in paw, carefully setting it down next to Yooch.

"Hold 'im down," the otter instructed. The shrew grabbed the hapless mole and with surprising strength held him firmly to the ground so that he could not escape. The otter uncorked the bottle, and used the paw holding the poker to grasp the arrow as well...

xxxx

Shilly woke up late, having been stirred only by the smell of cooking breakfast wafting across her nose. The cooks had been forced to make more than they normally would have, what with the addition of the rescued captives to the number of mouths to feed. She got herself a bowl of steaming, bland porridge and found Tristan breaking his fast on a log.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked him.

"Go ahead," he answered with a smile. "Did you sleep well?"

"As well as I could on the cold hard ground after almost getting killed. Listen, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's about the other soldiers. So many of them are...well..."

"Vermin." Tristan finished for her. "And I understand your concerns. I had them too, once."

"But why are goodbeasts fighting with vermin?" she demanded. "It doesn't make any sense!"

"Shilly, the Northlands are different from Mossflower. In many places, the distinction between goodbeasts and vermin still exists. But for those who have fought the Oskneyans, survival is more important than what species a beast is. The slave I escaped with was a fox. My captain was a stoat. And let me tell you, I would trust either of them with my life—and I have on more than one occasion. All of us know that the only way to survive is to fight together."

The squirrelmaid was quiet for a moment. "I see," she said softly. She was about to say something else when a scream was heard off in the distance. "That sounded like Yooh!" Shilly gasped. There followed the sound of something sizzling.

She and Tristan hurried over to the source of the noise and found Yooch lying on the ground with his leg now arrowless. The healer and his assistant were walking away to work on another patient. The squirrels stepped cautiously over to their friend, who looked up at them forlornly.

"Oi b'ain't never goin tur comlain abaout Zister Murtha's fizzicking h'again!" he moaned.

Tristan and Shilly stayed to console the hapless mole. Eventually they were joined by Polin. His face was long and sad, giving the bad news before his voice could tell it.

"What's wrong?" Shilly wondered. "Is Raff okay?"

"No, I'm afraid not," the old mouse replied wearily. "He survived the fight, but he took too many wounds and...I'm sorry, Shilly, but the healer just couldn't help him."

A single tear rolled down the squirrelmaid's cheek. "So what happens now?" she asked to nobeast.

"Bloodnose said he would join Murdoch's forces. Most of the other captives are going to Noonvale. As for me, I'm rather curious about that place you told me about. It's called Redwall, is it not?"

"Yes," Shilly said. "It's a peaceful place, full of good cheer and friendly beasts and good food." Despite her words, she was surprised to find that she really didn't miss it all that much anymore. But why?

"I believe I shall find this place," Polin announced, cheering up somewhat. "I would very much like to spend my last days there. You said it was to the south, yes?"

"Yes. But are you going alone?"

"I am. But do not worry about me, young one. You don't get to be a hermit without learning a few things about taking care of yourself. Until we meet again." With that, he turned south and started walking.

Tristan thought of something and called back to the old mouse. "If you come across a copse of trees with a stream running through it," he said, "stay clear of it!" Polin thanked him with a wave and was gone.

At midday the band of soldiers got ready to move out. Shilly and Yooch were determined to keep their promise and stay with Tristan until they reached Skaramor, so they went with them. Before they moved out, Shilly asked Tristan one last question.

"Tristan, you said that some places in the Northlands distinguish between goodbeasts and vermin, right? So what are wolves considered?"

"Does it matter?" he responded.

Shilly thought about it. If it hadn't been for Murdoch, she and so many other beasts would still be slaves—and she might be dead. No, she decided, it didn't matter at all.

They reached Byrnach in four days.


	16. Byrnach

Byrnach could be seen almost a whole day before Murdoch and the others reached it. Rising up over the horizon, it was an impressive sight to behold. A cluster of mgithy mountains marked the place of Murdoch's realm. While there were a few villages scattered around the outskirts and foothills, most of the population lived in the citadel built into the three mountains at the center. Wisps of smoke could be seen rising from chimneys, promising a respite from the biting cold.

Shilly and Yooch marveled at the sight. Never in all their seasons did they imagine something so great and vast. The realm of Byrnach dwarfed Redwall Abbey. Even when they crossed what was recognized as the border it took half a day to travel up the dirt road leading to the citadel. They passed a village where beasts came out from their homes and waved to the arriving soldiers, some of whom left the detachment and joined the villagers. Shilly wondered why they did that, and Yooch suggested that the village was probably their home.

They marched through a valley with sides so tall they blocked view of the afternoon sun. It made the winter day even colder, but the two Redwallers were too lost in their awe to notice or care. Nothing, nothing could have prepared them for this experience.

And the gate! Shilly and Yooch always thought no portal could possibly be larger than the abbey main gate, but Byrnach's gate made it look like a little hole. It was immense; a great maw that looked like it could sallow the entire world. A mighty groan sounded from it as the maw opened up, allowing the band of travelers' access to the citadel. A winding road led up to it, preventing view of the inside and torturing the young squirrelmaid. If this was only the valley, what must the citadel be like?

For an eternity the Redwallers marched up the winding road before finally passing through the gate and beyond the enormous wall. What they saw next was even more amazing than the valley. More soldiers were milling about on both sides of the marching column. The travelers passed through a second, smaller gate and into the citadel.

There were buildings everywhere, more than Shilly or Yooch could count. Even more numerous were the beasts that inhabited this place. There were beasts of every kind, from mice and rats to foxes and otters and voles and shrews...it was unbelievable. And, far at the other side of the sprawl, there was a keep. It was at least the size of Redwall's main building, great, gray and humbling. A banner flew from a flagpole at the top, a golden eagle on a field of red—Murdoch's banner.

Murdoch called for a halt and faced his soldiers. He dismissed them then, allowing them to return to their homes. They cheered, said a few praises for their lord, and quickly dispersed. The captives who had been freed were taken by a few guards to train for entering Skaramor's army. Shilly and Yooch were left alone then, not sure of what to do or where to go. The wolf lord turned on his heel and took a few steps, then stopped. Remembering the two youngsters, he turned back around and addressed them.

"The two of ye will be mah guests for the duration," he informed them. "Come wi' me." He turned again and strode down the street, heading for the keep. Taken aback by the alien environment, the Redwallers hesitated a moment before hurrying to catch up with their new host.

As they strode to the keep, many beasts greeted Murdoch with warm words and were repaid in kind. All the while the wolf lord told his guests about his lands, talking of having to put on a brave face for his subjects despite a poor campaign in the summer, how Byrnach was far less crowded before the war, and basically educating them on the state of affairs in the place. It was strange to hear such an imposing figure speak like this, to come down to their level.

The keep reminded the Redwallers of their home, in a way. There was a bell tower and a hall where meals were held as well as an area where most of the bedrooms were located. Upon reaching the building, Murdoch and his guests were greeted by three other wolves—two cubs and an adult female. One of the cubs, the male, shouted "Father!" and raced toward the wolf lord.

Murdoch scooped up the lad, beaming with pride, and rested him on his shoulder. "This is mah son, Cadoc," he told his guests. "He'll grow tae be a fahn lord one day." The cub grinned and waved at Shilly and Yooch, who could only wave back.

"And this is mah daughter Murron," he added, ruffling the other cub's head affectionately, "and mah wahf Caitriona." He nodded to the adult female.

"It is good to see you again, husband," Caitriona intoned. "I had not expected you back so soon."

"That bastard Voh cut the training short," Murdoch growled. "Ah'm a little surprised I didnae kill 'im." Remembering that his cubs were present, he made himself brighten. "Ah brought guests from the southern lands. It's a long story, but they're from Redwall Abbey."

"Redwall!?" his wife gasped. "I thought that was a legend!"

"As ah said, it's a long story. But it can be heard at supper tonight. Come noo, young ones," Murdoch said to Shilly and Yooch. "Let's get ye to yaer rooms." He and his family led them into the keep and the first warm place they had been in a very long time.

xxxx

The Soldier's Toast was a tradition almost as old as war itself. The bond between soldiers of a unit was a strong one, and the death of a comrade-in-arms was like the death of a brother. And in the Northlands, there was a special ceremony for mourning such deaths at the end of a summer. It was different this time, however. Other times Tristan had a unit with whom he could mourn. Now they were all gone, and he was alone with his grief.

Tristan and Jalryk found a pub for it to take place. It was a small, quiet place where they could have some peace and not worry about being bothered by anybeast who wanted to meet the squirrel who found Martin's sword.

"To fallen comrades," Jalryk began, raising his mug.

"May they find some peace," Tristan finished, repeating the gesture. Then they took a long draught of their drinks. The Soldier's Toast was a simple ceremony, but it held great importance—a toast to old friends followed by a few moments of reminiscing about their lives. Ordinarily the members of a unit would reminisce together, but Tristan was forced to all of it himself.

Jalryk listened patiently, nodding and laughing whenever a particularly humorous story was recalled. Tristan went on for a while before he ran out of stories. He fell utterly silent, unsure of what would happen now.

"About the raid," he said. "Do you know what happened to Iron-Rod?"

"Aye. Tried ter sneak out the back like the coward 'e was. Drog an' 'is lads got 'im. I tell yer, there were so many arrers in the old bastard ye'd think 'e was an 'edgepig! What's wrong, mate? Yew sick?" Tristan looked unwell.

"No, I'm fine. I just..."

"Think ye should've been the one ter kill 'im? Huh, yew an' everybeast else 'oo knew 'im. Get over it."

Tristan slammed his mug on the table and stood up. "He murdered my little brother! My whole life I've been waiting for a chance like that!"

"An' that's yer problem!" the fox returned. He had been expecting this for some time. "Yew've been 'opin' and prayin' fer that so long yew've fergotten what yew are. Yer a soldier, Tristan. A soldier first an' a soldier to the last, down ter the last full measure of devotion. An' don't give me nothin' about yer brother. I was there, remember? I saw the same thing yew did."

"Then you should know what I feel like." Tristan threw a coin on the table, turned and walked toward the door. "Thank you for joining me," he said over his shoulder. He was out the door before Jalryk could say anything else.

Outside, the streets were crowded as usual. It seemed that the longer the war went on, the more cramped life in Byrnach became. It made sense, though. For one thing, Murdoch's land was as safe as could be, and many beasts were getting scared. There was very little that could stop an Oskneyan onslaught. For another, Byrnach was a common destination for slaves escaping Oskneyan rule. Once they heard of this place, Tristan and Jalryk agreed that it would be the best place to go when they escaped.

Everywhere there was activity, not like Redwall. Everybeast was trying to sell their wares, desperate to get some business and bring some food home to their families. A hare jewler's stand caught Tristan's attention. One of the items he was offering for sale was a necklace, at the center of which a tiny gold fish with sapphires for eyes. It reminded him of when he was very young, and his father took him and his brother to see the ocean.

It was a wondrous sight; the expanse of water seemed to go on forever. It made life seem full of infinite possibilities, like Tristan could make anything happen. He had since learned better. But this little treasure brought back that feeling for some reason Tristan couldn't explain. Shilly had never seen the ocean, he realized. Maybe she would like that fish.

Tristan asked the jeweler what the price for the fish was. Upon hearing the answer, he shook his head and left. There was no way he could afford it.

"Wait a minute there, laddy," the hare said quickly. "Maybe we can hammer out a deal, wot?"

"A deal?"

"Aye. I'm goin' on a holiday as soon as winter lets herself up, and I could use a jolly weapon to keep unsavory characters at bay. That's a bally fine liddle sword ye've got—feel like a trade?"

Tristan glanced at the gleaming blade thrust through his belt. "I wish I could," he replied. "But this sword is too valuable; I can't trade it."

"Well howzabout I throw in something extra, wot? I've got a pretty nice bracelet here."

"Sorry, but no." The hare made another attempt to sweeten the deal, but Tristan was already walking away. The jeweler shook his head, gave up and continued advertising his wares with long, loud praises of them. Whatever the story was with that sword, it must have been worth a great deal.

xxxx

Shilly had not expected that wolves would be so hospitable. Murdoch had introduced her and Yooch to the rest of the wolves living at Byrnach (all of them family to the wolf lord), and it was a nerve-wracking experience. They were all so big and fearsome-looking; the Redwallers half expected to be eaten. Especially when the great beasts showed their teeth.

But in the end there was nothing to fear. Murdoch announced that the Sword of Martin the Warrior had been found, and these youngsters were from the abbey the legendary mouse had built. The wolf lord's cousin, an old wolf called Argyle, decided that this called for a feast, and he set out to give word to the servants in the kitchens. A few whispered remarks about Argyle's weight suggested that he called for feasts often.

Murdoch sent a mouseservant out to find Tristan and bring him to the hall. After all, he was the one who found the sword, so he ought to be present for the celebration. The runner came back just before the feast was to begin. Tristan was not with him.

"I'm sorry my lord," the hapless mouse stammered. "I looked everywhere; I couldn't find him."

The wolf lord was not angry, much to the servant's relief, but the situation was a little annoying. "Perhaps he met a bad end," Argyle suggested. "We've had a problem with robbers recently, after all."

"No beast with a brain in his head wid attack one of mah soldiers," Murdoch retorted. He turned back to the mouseservant. "He may have gone tae the barracks. Look for him there." The mouse nodded, bowed and hurried off.

Shilly found a balcony overlooking the town and was drawn over to it by the sights and sounds in the waning sunlight. There wasn't much to see, really, save the vast number and variety of beasts living in one place. There were easily more here than at the abbey. And that thought spurred so many confusing feelings. She should have been aching to return to the safety and seclusion of Redwall, but she wasn't. She remembered her home fondly, but felt no real need to return.

"Reflecting on deep thoughts?" a voice behind her asked. The startled squirrelmaid looked around to see Lady Caitriona.

"Oh, hello," Shilly said. "Um, not really. It's just that this place is all so strange, so different from my home."

Caitriona nodded sagely. "_O hiraeth, na coisricthe geis._"

"I'm sorry...but..."

"It is from a poem in the old language," the wolf explained. "Roughly translated, it means 'O the home-yearning, the blessed curse.' The _hiraeth_, you see, is something many travelers are familiar with. It is a desire to see one's home again; sometimes it can be quite painful. That is what you feel, yes?"

"Yes. A little. I don't know."

Caitriona went over to the edge of the balcony and placed her paws on the railing. "Strange this place must be to you, a land where squirrels enslave the helpless and vermin fight for freedom. It wasn't always like this. There was a time when my husband had to settle disputes and clan feuds every day. But now look. For every five beasts down there, one of them has taken up arms against the enemy. There are no more disputes, no more feuds between clans. And soon, if we are lucky, all of the Northlands will be like Byrnach. Such is the good Martin's sword could do. Ah, I see our hero has arrived."

Shilly leaned over to see what the lady wolf was talking about and saw the mouseservant coming up to the keep, with Tristan in tow. It was good to see him again.

"Well now," Caitriona intoned. "I think it time for our meal. Come, I think you will enjoy Northlander fare." They went together into the hall of the wolves, and somehow Shilly expected she would like the food more than the wolf thought.


	17. The Challenges

It was the first properly cooked meal Shilly, Yooch, Tristan and Murdoch had eaten in many days. For the Redwallers, it was a new experience. There was dense, heavy bread with a tough and chewy crust, a pudding made with various fruits, a thick vegetable stew, baked fish, roasted pheasant (which the youngsters avoided), and cake full of small slices of apples. To drink, there was some very strong ale and sharp-tasting whiskey, a new taste treat for the Redwallers. It was certainly no abbey fare, but it was good and hearty and it was served in a warm room.

As the food began to disappear, a few of the wolves wanted to hear the travelers' story. They were curious about how Tristan had come to possess the weapon of Skaramor's salvation, and what kind of place Redwall Abbey was. Tristan went first, beginning with his unit's orders at the end of summer. Curses were heaped upon the Oskneyans and their king when the squirrel came to the part about the ambush that killed everybeast but him.

Once the wolves had settled down, Tristan continued on with his tale, describing the harsh journey south and finally coming to the part where he found the fabled abbey. It was here that the squirrel soldier decided that Shilly and Yooch should tell the Northlanders about their home.

But first the wolves wanted to know about Martin's stories in Mossflower. The Redwallers obliged them, telling the familiar tale of how the land had once been ruled by a vicious wildcat and how Martin led the fight against her. They told of how the warrior mouse's sword was broken and how it was reforged with the metal from a shooting star. This impressed the wolves _very_ much, and led to speculation that the blade held all kinds of mysterious powers. The only part they enjoyed more was the part where the great battle to free Mossflower was fought. The fact that Martin was able to slay the wildcat despite being wounded a hundred times (or so the story went) was most entertaining.

From there the tale changed to how Martin helped found Redwall Abbey and gave up the life of a warrior to live in peace. This was not quite as entertaining as the first part of the epic, but then wolves could be expected to hold such an opinion.

Then, not quite knowing where to begin, the youngsters painted an image of what it was like to live at Redwall. They spoke of the many feasts held there and the wonderful food that was served, from leek-and-onion pasties to woodland trifle to October ale and so many other delicacies. They continued with day-to-day life; detailing the work everybeast did for the good of all. Great emphasis was given to the fact that nobeast fought against one another.

"Wait a minute," Argyle broke in. "Ye mean ye have _no_ warriors?"

"Hurr, no zurr," Yooch answered. "We'm peezful beasts."

"What do ye do when there's a war?" the old wolf wondered.

"I can't remember there being a war at Redwall," Shilly said with a shrug. Argyle and the other wolves made no other comments, but they looked thoroughly perplexed at the squirrelmaid's words.

"But there is the Long Patrol," she added. "They are a tribe of fighting hares who live at a mountain to the east of the abbey. If ever the land is threatened, they set out to make it safe again." This seemed to satisfy her audience. A cold ache grabbed her heart when she figured out why. These creatures had spent their whole lives living from one war to the next, always fighting or staying on guard for the next time they would fight. They had forgotten—if they had ever known—what it was like to live in peace. It almost made her cry.

"All right then, what happened when Tristan got tae the abbey?" Murdoch's daughter asked. Shilly realized that she had been silent for several moments.

"Well," Tristan said, "like I said, I was close to death when I arrived..."

xxxx

The feast lasted for a while after the travelers had finished their story. Eventually Murdoch decided that it was getting awfully late, and it was time for a good night's rest. Shilly and Yooch were shown to their guest rooms while Tristan bade everybeast farewell and retired to the barracks.

The guest rooms were simple, but warm. There were large beds in each, covered with heavy blankets to ward off the cold Northlander winter. Sleep, however, proved elusive. For what seemed like an eternity, Shilly lay in the first real bed she had lain in for weeks. Giving up on slumber, she went to the window of her room and looked out over the town. A chill wind blew in, sending shivers all over her body.

A few lights could still be seen in some of the buildings, but the squirrelmaid had no idea why or what they were. All she knew was that there were beasts in them, and they were awake. So was she, only she was all alone and so very cold. This land was so strange, so harsh and unforgiving. Yet even though she held such fond memories of her far-away home, Shilly felt no urgent need to return there. It was as if she could survive anywhere she liked, even in the Northlands.

She realized then that she really _could_ survive here. She had gone through that whole ordeal at the Oskneyan slave camp, although not unscathed; she could very well go through anything else. Her wits had seen her through the experience, so why not other experiences as well? She had often thought of when she, Yooch, Chulain and Tristan had been captured by those awful white ferrets, and remembered all kinds of opportunities she had to get out without any help. All she needed was to think.

Her cleverness had been applied to so many things at Redwall, from getting out of chores or making them easier to stealing some treats out of the kitchen. Like that time Friar Barney had left a tray of pasties to cool on a windowsill and Shilly was confined to her room. The squirrelmaid found some hooks and a lot of twine and used them to carry the entire tray up without leaving her room, and nobeast was the wiser.

Yes, she could do it. If she really wanted to, Shilly could live up here in the Northlands with all of their wars and hardships and survive, even thrive! A feeling of great freedom washed over her. Like all those heroes in all those stories, she was a survivor. She took in the sight of the sleeping town of Byrnach and went back to her bed. She pulled the heavy blankets over herself and fell into a contented sleep.

Even before the blankets lay upon her, she didn't feel so cold anymore.

xxxx

Tristan strolled confidently through the streets of Byrnach, relishing the treatment he had received. Never before had he even imagined being invited to Lord Murdoch's hall. And for a feast in his honor no less! Being a hero was rather fun, he decided. For a while he let his ego get the better of him and thought about his name being put into a song or poem. The thought was preposterous, of course, but that didn't mean it wasn't fun.

Olaf Iron-Rod was forgotten, at least for now. The sentries at the barracks recognized him immediately as the squirrel whom Lord Murdoch had invited to a feast and saluted him as he passed. Others had apparently told them about his exploits in the south, no doubt with ridiculous exaggeration. By now they were probably talking of how he used Martin's legendary blade to kill a giant snake or some other monster.

And the reception he got in the scouts' barracks was even more impressive. Immediately upon setting foot inside, two beasts came up behind him and heaved him onto their shoulders while the other scouts broke out into a traditional song for celebrating a victorious battle. It was in the old language, so few knew what the words actually meant, but everybeast there knew it by heart.

Like every other beast, the scouts wanted to hear The Story. By now it was almost painfully familiar, but Tristan obliged his comrades anyway. He embellished a few details, like the number of Oskneyans that attacked his unit and how many had been killed, but otherwise it was the same.

When he had finished, Lennox, the commander of Byrnach's scouts, approached and personally congratulated Tristan on his successful mission. Lennox was a tough old shrew who had fought with Lord Murdoch on countless battlefields. He did not generously hand out compliments, so hearing his congratulations was doubly satisfying.

"You did good, lad," he said with the faintest of smiles. "And I have some good news: you've been made Captain of your unit."

"My unit is gone," Tristan said solemnly. "Didn't you hear my story?"

"Aye, that I did. There's a new scout unit, and you're commanding it. Of course, they're all green as grass. Just finished their training."

"Fine by me," the squirrel replied. "Everybeast has to start somewhere."

The celebration and goodwill continued into the night. A secret cask of mead was brought out to make the night more entertaining. Mead was an Oskneyan drink, and the cask had been recovered in a raid. It was a strong drink made of fermented honey and responsible for more than one stupid act. A rat and a hare convinced Tristan to let them spar using Martin's sword, which they took turns using. After a few hours of partying, Lennox decided it was time for lights out. The sword of the legendary warrior was returned to its new master, with a promise to sharpen out any dents in the blade caused by sparring.

"No need," Tristan said. He was almost in a trance as he examined the sword. "Here, take a look." Everybeast gathered around, and gasps and murmurs abounded when they saw the sword. Ordinarily when a sword was used in combat the contact it made with other blades created little dents in the edge, and the weapon would have to be sharpened in order to repair the damage and maintain its effectiveness. But the sword of Martin the Warrior had no such dents. It was as sharp as the day it was forged.

"Blimey," a hare said in an awed whisper. "That sword doesn't dent. How d'ye like that?"

xxxx

On the eastern border of Byrnach, located on one of the foothills, there was a small fort that served as an outpost to guard against invasion. In all its many seasons of existence, the fort had never once seen battle. The soldiers garrisoned there were those who had proven themselves weakest in fighting or had displeased Lord Murdoch in one way or another. In fact, being sent to the fort was so shameful that the soldiers there mockingly called it _Dun Gloir_, which in the old language meant "fortress of glory."

Most days there were spent lounging about, playing games, and getting drunk. Over time, the families of the fort's warriors came over and settled a little village just outside the walls. This way they could spend time with their loved ones without having to traverse the entire region. It was a building meant for war, yet was a place of peace and boredom.

The infrastructure was simple—there were two gates, one facing the east and one facing the west. There was a barracks, an armory, and in the center of it all there was a tower that served as the keep and lookout post. All of it was fairly run-down and in need of repair, but Murdoch never paid this fact much mind because the outpost never saw battle and so was not in dire need of solidity. Besides, fixing the problems themselves would give the unfortunate soldiers something constructive to do. None of the beasts there were masons or carpenters, however, so all of the repairs done were patchwork at best.

And so, life at Dun Gloir went by listlessly, with days spent whiling the hours away and dreaming of another chance for true glory. Almost everybeast there wished he hadn't made the mistake that had put him here, imagining how he could have done things differently. But all that imagining and dreaming was pointless, as their lord had forgotten about them here and would never again take them on campaign in the summer. They were doomed to spend the rest of their days here, in this worthless, run-down grave.

The fort was commanded by a squirrel named Spenser, who a couple of seasons ago had gotten a little too drunk at a feast once and slurred an insult at Lady Caitriona. The very next day he was sent to Dun Gloir, never to return. He never heard from his lord again. The morning after the feast was held in Tristan's honor, Spenser and a few moles were busy fixing a crack in the wall of the barracks. It was an infuriating nuisance, causing the building to get colder than it needed to be. It didn't help that the cracked wall faced the prevailing winds around these parts; a sudden gust of wind could quickly make everybeast inside miserable.

During his time here, Spenser had gotten rather adept at such chores. He actually enjoyed them; they gave his paws something to do. Besides keeping the outpost from falling down around itself, he made sure to keep his troops drilled, just to give them a sense of purpose. Often the families would be invited to see these demonstrations so the young ones could see that their fathers were doing something important—even though they weren't.

When the crack was filled with mortar, Spenser put down his trowel and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"It be'm a gudd fix," one of the moles declared. And it was: one could hardly tell that a crack had been there at all. Mild congratulations were passed around while Spenser left to see if there were any other matters that required his attention. Finding none, he decided to find a drink.

Up at the top of the tower, a rat named Kragg kept watch over the area. Unlike the other soldiers, he arrived at Dun Gloir by request. He joined the army to get away from the cruelty his father showed him on a daily basis. However, he had no wish to die in battle and asked to be sent to the eastern outpost where he was sure he would be safe from harm. While Spenser was setting off in search of libations, Kragg squinted at the eastern horizon and called down to the squirrel: "Troops coming back from campaign, sir!"

"Kragg, you idiot," Spenser called back, "it's the middle of bloody winter. Nobeast is coming back from campaign."

"Well, there's a great horde of beasts headed this way," the lookout said. "What else could it be?"

A seed of panic entered Spenser's mind. Could it...no, it was impossible... "Do they have a banner?" he asked.

Kragg looked back toward the approaching force. "Aye," he answered. "It's hard to make out, but it looks like...a black banner with a red tooth on it."

The commander of Dun Gloir searched his memory. Where had he seen a banner like that? Panic set in as he remembered, several seasons ago, when he had seen such a symbol on the battlefield. It was the personal standard of Sigurd Blood-Tooth, king of Oskney.

"It's the Oskneyans!" he screamed. "We're being invaded!"


	18. To Arms

Patiently the mouse stood up on the citadel's wall, waiting for nothing to happen. He didn't enjoy sentry duty, but at least he didn't have to do it very often. It was winter after all, and war simply took a break during that time. His shift was almost over, and then he would be able to relax.

He considered leaving early, wondering if his replacement would notice his lapse in discipline and report him—not very likely, but the mouse's conscience intervened and rather rudely forced him to stay up here in the cold air a while longer. He sighed, thought about his upcoming wedding to a very pretty mousemaid, and then noticed that a fire had been lit up on one of the mountains.

At first the sentry didn't know what to make of it. Was somebeast up there just cold, or was it—or was that fire a beacon? A complex system of such fires lay unlit around the mountains of the region, and when one area was facing a crisis of some kind, the beasts there would light their beacon, and beasts occupying a nearby camp would light theirs, and another camp's beacon would light its fire, and so on until the citadel received the wordless message.

The mouse started to become nervous. That beacon he saw lit represented the eastern outpost, and the only reason they would have to light their beacon was—

He dropped his spear and launched himself over the snow-covered wall top and hurtled down the stairs, his paws slapping against the cold stone like fat raindrops. From there he reached the corridor just behind the wall and searched for the door to the outside. It took him longer than usual to find it, but when he did he dashed out, not bothering to close it behind him, and headed for the lord's hall as fast as his legs could carry him.

A pair of hedgehogs was strolling around the barracks, chatting and laughing like nothing was wrong. "Wake everybeast up!" the mouse yelled at them. "The beacons are lit!" Not stopping to ask questions, the hedgehogs immediately split up to relay the message to the other soldiers.

The town was just starting to wake, so nobeast slowed the mouse's mad rush to the hall. Anybeast in his path quickly jumped to the side, wondering why on earth this mouse was in such a hurry to get to.

He had made this trip before, why did it now seem to take longer to get there? No matter how fast he ran, the hall remained far away, a distant figure on the horizon. It took forever, but eventually he made it there. Two guards stood in front of the main door.

"Let me through!" the mouse pleaded to them. "Urgent message for his lordship!" Like the hedgehogs at the barracks, these beasts decided not to ask questions. They threw opened the door and shouted directions to Lord Murdoch's chamber as the mouse streaked past them.

Following the directions to the letter, the mouse ran up to the door and slammed his paw against it repeatedly until he heard an irritated growl come from the other side. There followed the sound of somebeast rolling out of bed, and pawsteps could be heard coming up to the door. The portal swung open suddenly, and the lord of Byrnach stood dressed in a nightshirt in the doorway, almost filling it completely.

"Yes?" he rumbled.

"My lord," the mouse gasped, "the beacons are lit! Dun Gloir is under attack!"

"What!?"

"The eastern outpost, my lord. The beacons for the eastern outpost have been lit."

"Awaken the troops," the wolf instructed.

"It is being done now, my lord."

"What on earth in going on?" Lady Caitriona's voice asked from inside the chamber.

"The eastern beacon is lit," Murdoch answered. He lumbered over to his closet to get his day clothes. "It's likely a false alarm, and if it is, ah'll have somebeast's head."

"And what if the threat is real?" his wife inquired. Murdoch gave no reply.

xxxx

"Wake up, you lazy arses!" somebeast shouted. Tristan awoke with a start, his head a little sore from the previous night's celebrating. It took him a few heartbeats to figure out what was going on. All around him the other scouts were getting up, battling hangovers, and wondering why in the world this hedgehog was yelling in their ears.

"What the hell is going on!?" Lennox demanded of the hedgehog.

"Not quite sure, sir," he replied. "One of the beacons is lit and a call to arms has been issued."

"Which beacon?"

"I think it's the eastern outpost."

"The eastern--? What's the eastern outpost got to raise an alarm about!?"

Lennox did not receive an answer. The hedgehog was already out the door and heading to the next barracks. The old shrew sighed and addressed his scouts: "All right lads, you heard 'im. Get up and arm yourselves."

The barracks was suddenly a blur of activity as the scouts obeyed their commander without question—but not without a little grumbling. Tristan heaved himself out of his cot and found his spear and Martin's sword. The latter he found in a scabbard which fit the blade fairly well. Ah yes, somebeast had offered the scabbard as a gift the other night. Through the haze of his mercifully mild hangover, Tristan made a mental note to remember who that beast was and thank him. He buckled on the sword, took up his spear and marched out into the cold morning.

In less than a minute, the scouts were armed and had filed out of the barracks. Already many of the other soldiers had done the same, clad in red tunics, helmets, and chain armor. The scouts wore no armor, but some had helmets and they were dressed in a reddish brown. It was an impressive display, but it looked out of place in the winter.

Murdoch arrived a while later, his crimson cloak billowing magnificently behind him as he strode into view. Followed by a sentry and his cousin Argyle, who led a unit of shields, he looked about as upset as any of his command. The wolf lord was in full war gear, shield, helmet, sword and armor. Again, this sight was out of place in the winter.

Aonghas the hare captain went up and saluted his lord. "Almost everybeast is assembled, mah lord," he reported. "But they're a mite confused."

"So am I," Murdoch conceded. "But ah dunnae want tae take risks. Whatever this is, we're guin' tae have a look."

Worry seeped into Tristan's mind as he remembered his situation. "Lennox, sir," he said to his commander, "I don't have a unit yet."

"I know," the shrew said, frustrated. "They're around here somewhere." His eyes quickly scanned the area. "Over there," he said, pointing. "It's that lot. Let's go; you ought to be introduced."

Lennox had told the truth last night; these beasts _were_ green. There was not a single scar among any of the eleven of them. Their faces were bright, fresh, and eager, as though they were setting off on some wonderful adventure. They would have to lose that attitude if they wanted any hope of surviving the battle—if, indeed, that was what was coming.

"Good morning, all," Lennox greeted them. Immediately they snapped to attention. Well, that was one good sign.

"This here," the old shrew continued, "is Tristan, and he'll be your captain for as long as you or he can manage to stay alive. And before you can ask, yes, he is in fact the one who went south and found the sword of Martin the Warrior. So show him a little bloody respect! Tristan, your command." Lennox turned on his heel and left.

For a moment, Tristan said nothing. He had no experience in leadership at all, had no idea of what to say to his troops. At first he just looked around at them, remembering what it was like when he first went on campaign. Then a thought occurred—he tried to remember what his captain had said to him those seasons ago.

"Good morning," he began. "You all know why we're here—to defend our kingdom, our land, our families. You all look very pleased with yourselves, and that's good. You'll need confidence to do the things we scouts do. Just remember that straw dummies and wooden posts don't fight back. The Oskneyans are dangerous enemies, but if you remember your training _and use it, _you will come back alive. I look forward to fighting alongside all of you. At ease; we'll wait for the order to march."

The recruits relaxed a little and talked softly among themselves. Tristan felt a little better now; he knew these beasts would serve their king and homeland well. There were three mice in the unit, a squirrel, a stoat, a fox, two shrews who were clearly brothers, a rat, a vole, and a hedgehog. Already it was plain that they had forged strong bonds together. And more than likely many of those bonds would be broken by death.

"Open the gate!" sombeast called in the distance. A huge groan sounded as the portal opened outward and the soldiers of Byrnach, led by Lord Murdoch, marched through in neat columns. In a few minutes Tristan's unit fell into line, and they marched through the gate and on to destiny.

xxxx

Long had he waited for this moment.

Long had he yearned for the chance to strike the deathblow against his enemy.

And now it was time.

He could see it happening in his mind: the fall of Byrnach; the defeat of his greatest foe. Murdoch could not possibly survive against the onslaught he would now face. In less than two weeks the whole of the strength of Oskney would be at his door, crashing through his wall and laying waste to the one obstacle that stood between Oskney and victory in this war.

For too long had Murdoch outwitted him; too long had he foiled his plans and stopped his advances. Now, Sigurd Blood-Tooth would take his revenge at last. At the moment he had only his personal force, but that made no difference in the grand scheme of things. Reinforcements would never arrive in time to save the wolf lord from his final defeat.

This was a personal matter at heart. Oh, the fall of Byrnach would be a great victory, but the King of the Red Tooth had another reason for striking here. He had received the name of Blood-Tooth many seasons ago, at the onset of the war. He had just taken the throne after his father had died in an "accident." To prove his strength, he did battle to expand the kingdom. And in one of the first battles, he and Murdoch had met face-to-face on the field.

Never had Sigurd fought a beast of such strength or ferocity. With every blow Murdoch seemed to grow stronger, forcing his enemy back step by step. It was all he could do to keep the wolf lord's sword away from him. And then the blade had found his face and struck a tooth from the new king's mouth. His honor guard had managed to distract Murdoch before he could finish the job, allowing Sigurd to escape.

The battle had been won, but the newly named Blood-Tooth had been humiliated. Ever since that duel on the battlefield, his lords had not regarded him with the same respect they had given his father. There were rumors that some were plotting an overthrow, but who exactly the king had no idea. It haunted him constantly, like some vengeful ghost.

Well, now the time had come to lay that ghost to rest. He looked toward the small fort in the foothills with a hunger nobeast but he could have imagined. Everything had to go perfectly, because if it didn't, then his plan would fail and possibly cost him the entire war. But he felt confident that this would be a victory.

It just had to be.


	19. A Duel in the Snow

The threat was real. Murdoch stood on the battlements of Dun Gloir, his cousin Argyle by his side, gazing upon the field and contemplating what was to come. Four thousand Oskneyan warriors stood arrayed against his realm, camped out several hundred yards away—well out of the reach of arrows.

"Nice of them tae visit us," Argyle commented casually. "Shall we greet them?"

Murdoch shook his head. "We'll wait," he decided. "We're ootnumbered and Blood-Tooth's have marched a long way through snow and ice. They'll be eager tae fight."

"Aye," his cousin agreed. "But doesn't that mean we should make the first move?"

"No. If Blood-Tooth doesn't attack soon, he'll have a mutiny on his paws. And he knows it. Noo, we have the advantage because of our position, and the enemy has no siege equipment. We'll wait for them tae break their heads against the walls, and chase them off then." He turned and headed down the stairs leading to the main grounds of the outpost, where villagers were making ready to depart for the citadel. It was too late in the day for them to leave now; they would have to wait until morning.

"This doesn't make sense," Argyle grumbled. "If you're going tae lay a siege, why no' take siege equipment?"

"Sigurd's impatient," Murdoch replied. "He'll try tae do the job weth ladders for noo, ef he ahs them. In the meantahme ah want every fighting beast in mah service tae come here as soon as possible. No doot Caitriona's got them standing by already, so et shouldnae take long."

"Aye, but think, Murdoch—Blood-Tooth's must have help on the way. He's taking a terrible chance with this attack; he wouldnae make it with just four thousand troops. There must be more coming."

"Ah know that, Argyle. We'll just have tae send for reinforcements and hope Sigurd doesn't have the roads laid with ambushes. Which he probably has."

xxxx

"Oi don't loik waiting, no zurr," Yooch mumbled. He and Shilly sat across the supper table from each other, their appetites suddenly gone. Yooch had assured anybeast who inquired about this that it was due to the hearty food present at the previous night's feast. But that was a lie.

The Redwallers had woken to a very tense atmosphere in the keep. Lady Caitriona had informed them that there was an emergency of some kind to which Murdoch had to attend. While she insisted that it was probably nothing to worry about, the youngsters had been told of a rumor that the Oskneyans were attacking in the east. Although Tristan had said that fighting in the Northlands paused during the winter, Shilly and Yooch were still worried. They still remembered the time, many seasons ago, when their abbey had been attacked by a band of searats. They were too young to know exactly what was going on; all they knew was that they couldn't go outside anymore and the elders were very worried. And there were cries coming from the outside, terrible, evil cries...

"I can't stand this!" Shilly exclaimed suddenly. "Can't anybeast tell us what's going on out there!?"

"We'm arsked everybeast araound," the mole said. "Nobeast knows anyfing." He sighed. "Maybe a messunger wull come," he added.

"Maybe, but what are we supposed to do until then!? Sit here and twiddle our thumbs?"

"Hurr, we carn't just goo aout thurr. We cudd get killed."

"I'll die of boredom if we don't."

"Shilly, yu'll just harf to wait!" Silence followed. Moles were not given to sudden outbursts like the one Yooch had just made. He was feeling the stress of the situation as much as his friend, and now his ability to handle it was shaken.

"I'm sorry, Yooch," Shilly said softly. "It's just like back at Redwall. I feel trapped again, like I'm being denied something I know I could take. Maybe—"

"Maybe you'm more Northlander than Redwauller," Yooch finished for her. "Oi know, oi've seen et. Bruvver Chulain was ee same way, oi guess. Hurr, he moight've loiked ee old h'abbey, but 'oo dedn't? 'E was ulways a wurrier, even iffen 'e dedn't foight." A tear rolled down the young mole's cheek. "Oi miss 'im," he added.

"So do I," the squirrelmaid said. She looked at her meal as if seeing it for the first time. The food was similar to that served at last night's feast, and it was starting to get cold. Reluctantly, she started eating it. There was no sense in letting it go to waste.

xxxx

Dawn broke silently over Dun Gloir. The villagers quickly made ready to depart the battlefield; a few of the braver sons tried to stay and fight. Lord Murdoch would have none of it, and pacified the "volunteers" by telling them they needed to keep their families safe while they went to the citadel. Before the sun had shown itself entirely the exodus had begun, and runners were sent out to rally the rest of Byrnach's defenders from the numerous villages.

Sigurd had not attacked during the night, as Murdoch had expected. There was not even a little raid. Instead, he kept his warriors at their camp, or so it seemed. The wolf lord would not have put it past his enemy to send a few thieves into the village to take some supplies. But even that was unlikely to satisfy the Oskneyan horde. They had marched long and hard through the winter to get here; Sigurd was making a mistake by not letting them fight.

Off in the distance, a rough voice could be heard calling out. It was talking in Oskneyan.

"My lord," one of the lookouts on top of the wall announced, "there is a challenger out on the field!"

The wolf lord, who had been inside the tower planning out a battle plan, stepped out to address the lookout. "Aye, what's he saying?"

The lookout, a stoat and former slave who spoke the enemy's language, listened for a moment before replying. "Right, er, this bloke says 'e's Hrothgar Broad-Paw, and 'e's the greatest warrior that ever lived, and if anybeast be so fool as to come out and face him...it's your standard challenge, lord."

At once several beasts stepped up to their lord to accept this duel, including Jalryk. "Let me take care of 'im," the fox said. "I'll show the blighter what a real warrior can do!"

"No," Murdoch told them. Jalryk opened his mouth to protest, but stopped himself. The lord of Byrnach was shrewd, and he often found the best course of action before anybeast else could see it.

Murdoch scanned the soldiers in the fort for several tense moments until he found the one he wanted.

"Tristan," he said. The squirrel stepped out of the crowd obediently and saluted. "You will take this challenge. Let the Sword of Martin the Warrior take revenge on the Oskneyans!"

A cheer rose up from the soldiers, and many gathered on the wall top and tower to witness the duel. Tristan accepted his lord's command, although he wasn't entirely sure what he said. He was nervous. Never before had he fought in a challenge, and the enemy he would face sounded like he had. Tristan turned toward the gate and strode confidently forward. Many of his comrades gave him pats on the back and words of encouragement as he passed them.

The stoat who had announced the Oskneyan's challenged called down to the squirrel. "You want some armor, lad? This bastard's pretty big." Tristan realized that he had reached the gate. Funny, it should have taken longer to get there...

"No thank you," he answered. "I won't need it." Now why did he go and say that? His comrades cheered even more.

Hrothgar Broad-Paw was going on about his many brave deeds when the gate of Dun Gloir opened to allow Tristan out. It was a bleak sight. Off to the squirrel's left, abandoned houses sat like leering spectators. The entire world was covered in a thick blanket of snow. And a few hundred paces away, an enormous ferret had stopped his shouting to take a look at his opponent. Behind him were four thousand Oskneyan warriors.

Putting on a brave face, Tristan strode out as confidently as he could to meet this Hrothgar. The ferret returned in kind, and as they drew closer Tristan saw what the enemy was wearing—a tunic of iron scale armor. Bloody _scale_ armor—nothing was better at stopping blades. He also had a big metal shield and a helmet decorated to look like a skull in one arm, and an axe of unbelievable size in the other. Tristan was glad he had refused the armor; speed and agility would be key in this fight.

"Well, well, well," the Oskneyan ferret said in his own tongue as the combatants approached one another, "who is this who answers my challenge with no helmet or armor? Does he want to die so badly?"

"Who is this," Tristan calmly replied in the same language, "who swaddles himself in iron? Is he so afraid of me?"

This was a customary part of each duel. The duelists would exchange insults and boasts, hoping to cloud the opponent's concentration with anger. Besides, the whole point of a challenge was to boost your side's confidence, and humiliating your enemy before blades could even be crossed could do that very admirably. That was also why Tristan and Hrothgar were shouting; they wanted everybeast to hear this exchange.

"I am Hrothgar Broad-Paw!" the ferret boasted. "I fear nobeast, not even the serpents of the bogs or the great eagles of the sky. For I have slain both!" This was almost certainly a lie, but saying that out loud was a sign of cowardice. However, this brute seemed quite vain. That could be used...

"I am Tristan," the squirrel soldier countered. "And you and your entire kingdom shall soon know my name and tremble at its mention, for I am the one who shall drive you from these lands once and for all!" It wasn't much of a comeback, but it was the best he could come up with.

Hrothgar laughed derisively. No, not much of a comeback at all. "Such big words for so small a beast," he sneered.

"Such an ugly face for so proud a beast," Tristan said as casually as he could. "You should be ashamed of making a midwife see you." There, that got a reaction; ths brute was vain indeed. The ferret's face twisted into a mask of fury. For a solitary moment, he did not speak. "What's the matter?" Tristan pressed. "To stupid to figure out what to say next?"

That did it. "I will relish your death," Hrothgar growled, and set his helmet on his head. He took a step back and struck a fighting stance. Tristan drew Martin's sword and shifted his grip on his spear. He noticed that his enemy's helmet was close-faced and hindered peripheral vision—a weakness that would need to be exploited.

Hrothgar swung his weapon first, bringing the enormous axe into a wide overhead swing while advancing on the insolent squirrel. Tristan sidestepped easily and thrust his spear forward. The spearhead struck only the ferret's shield, not even fazing him. He returned with another axe swing, this one horizontal. The squirrel ducked and slashed at Hrothgar's legs with his sword, but the metal shield came down just in time to stop it—just as Tristan had expected.

The spear lanced upward now, striking the ferret squarely on the right side of his chest and forcing back a step. However, it was unlikely the attack did more than bruise him, what with the armor he was wearing. Thoroughly annoyed, Hrothgar lunged forward and brought his blade down hard, but the squirrel dodged again and he struck only the snowy ground. Recovering, the ferret surged toward his enemy, using the shield to knock him down. The axe swung down again, and again its target evaded it.

So far, Tristan's strategy was working. It didn't matter how strong this brute was, he couldn't keep wielding an axe like that forever. Sooner or later he would tire and slow down. Then Tristan could move in for the kill.

Hrothgar had been alive for too long to make such a mistake, however. He shifted his grip on the axe so he was holding it at the middle of the handle and kept moving to keep the squirrel in his sight. This helmet of his could be frustrating at times.

For a long moment, nobeast attacked; there was only the sound of footpaws shuffling around in the snow. Eventually, Tristan, realizing somebeast would have to break the stalemate, lunged and thrust with his spear. The ferret blocked it easily and swung his axe, which Tristan swept aside with Martin's sword. The squirrel began hacking and slashing with the blade, keeping his enemy hidden behind the metal shield.

Gradually, Tristan forced Hrothgar backward under a relentless hail of spear and sword blows. The Oskneyan was so blinded by his shield and helmet that he did not see his enemy reverse the direction of the spear and stab the point into his footpaw. He screamed and took a step back, putting his weight on his uninjured footpaw. He then decided to take a chance and surged suddenly forward, using his strength to drive off the squirrel's offensive.

Tristan stumbled and barely managed to block the brute's next attack. Apparently the wound in his paw had not hindered the ferret's ability to fight as much as Tristan had hoped. This brute could take a great deal of pain, it was clear. But the disadvantage he had in mobility was made even more pronounced now, and his defeat was a clear probability.

Hrothgar began lashing out now, not just with his axe but his shield as well. It may have been meant for protection, but a blow to the head from the rim of a shield would kill a beast just as much as an axe to the throat.

Tristan dodged and blocked as best as he could, but he was being forced backward very quickly and he couldn't keep this dance up forever. Sooner or later, one of Hrothgar's attacks would connect. He needed to get out of the way. He ducked the next swing and rolled forward, past his enemy's legs. Before the ferret knew what was happening, Tristan stood up behind him and slashed hard with his sword. Hrothgar let out a furious growl and turned around to respond, but not before Tristan saw a thin curtain of crimson spreading over the iron scales of his armor from where the blow had been struck. Martin's blade had gone straight through the scale armor.

Now Hrothgar began to tire. The loss of blood was starting to get at him, and his next attack with the axe was slow and clumsy and easy to avoid. He forced himself to concentrate and tried again, but the squirrel dodged again. The opportunity came to destroy the ferret's focus completely, and Tristan took it.

"What's the matter, Hrothgar Broad-Paw?" he taunted. "Can the beast who has slain serpents and eagles not defeat a little squirrel? Is he really so weak?"

A howl of rage and frustration came from behind the skull-face of Hrothgar's helmet. He charged madly, flailing his axe in all directions. It was a simple matter for Tristan to sidestep this desperate move and let the fool run right past him. It took the Oskneyan a couple of heartbeats to realize that and stop moving. He turned around and saw his enemy looking up at him with a smug expression on his face. Tristan twirled his spear once for show, and stabbed the point into Hrothgar's neck, where no armor protected him. The ferret made an odd gurgling noise and fell like some great tree into the snow, never to rise again.

Behind him, Dun Gloir erupted into raucous cheering as Tristan withdrew his weapon from the corpse that had been Hrothgar Broad-Paw. He looked up and saw the Oskneyan horde arrayed in front of him several hundred paces away. Taking the opportunity to damage their morale a little more, he pointed the sword of Martin at them.

"Long ago, before your kind darkened our shores, there was another beast who believed he could enslave these lands. A warrior rose up to challenge him, and struck him down with this very sword. As it defeated that evil beast, so shall it be the end of your entire wretched kingdom!" He turned on his heel and marched straight back to the outpost, letting his words sink into the Oskneyans' minds.

He allowed himself to grin as he walked back and the gates of the fort opened before him. He had emerged from his first challenge not only victorious, but without a scratch. It was a good day.


	20. Back in Noonvale

The log was split with one clean swing of the axe. Donnal had gotten better at chopping wood ever since he began combat training with Murdoch's troops. Only instead of learning to split logs, he had been learning to split heads.

It was odd; somehow Noonvale was different since the Skaramorians left. Maybe everybeast had gotten used to their presence. Or maybe it had to do with the fact that everybeast who trained in the militia was different now that they knew how to kill. But either way a great unease had settled over the village, one that nobeast spoke of. Some had lost respect in their chieftain; others lauded him for getting rid of the warriors before something terrible happened.

Realizing that he had stopped his work, Donnal put one of the log halves back on the stump and divided it in two with another precise blow. He repeated the action with the other half, then took another log and started the process over.

His father had made a mistake. Maybe not about sending Murdoch and his beasts away, but certainly about their character. They were fighters, yes, and they were course in their actions and language, but they were good beasts at heart. Even the vermin weren't so bad, once you got to know them. There was something about facing hardship together that forged an almost unbreakable bond between two creatures; even with his limited knowledge of war Donnal could see that. And what greater hardship could there be but war?

Part of the sun disappeared behind the tree tops. It was already quite cool, and soon night would fall and it would become much cooler. Winter was starting to lift; Donnal could feel the days warming little by little. That didn't mean it was good to be caught outside in the dark yet. The young mouse hurried up with his chore and finished just as the sky turned red and violet. He placed the quartered logs in a sack and carried it inside, where his mother and father were waiting.

Supper was almost ready when Donnal arrived. Padraig Voh looked at the sack of quartered logs and nodded.

"Good work," he said without emotion.

"Thank you," Donnal answered with just as much feeling. This was the usual kind of conversation they shared nowadays. Before the warriors had arrived they would go on for hours, always finding something new to chat or debate about. But lately a rift had grown between them; the only reason they put up with each other was for the sake of Donnal's mother. She had been traumatized when, not more than a week ago, her son and her husband had erupted in a vicious argument over the chieftain's decision about the militia. They shouted until they were hoarse, and the son stormed out of the house to cool his temper. He came back the next day, after hearing of how his mother had taken the incident, and since then there had been no more arguments with his father. There had hardly been anything with his father. Donnal tried to imagine himself in his mother's place, and wondered if the silence was worse.

Nobeast talked during supper. When they were finished eating, Padraig Voh, his son, and his wife went to bed without saying anything.

xxxx

The next day something enormous happened. At first, everybeast just thought it was a weary traveler who had stumbled upon their hidden village. They had no idea what he would bring.

Loova the ottermaid found him. He was an old hare who looked like he had seen better days. He walked with a cane, trudging through the snow with only his clothes and a small bag on his back. Loova had been on one of her now-common walks out in the forest and saw him by accident. Thinking the old hare could use a place to stay, she wasted no time in offering shelter in Noonvale. The old hare was quite grateful, and was taken to Padraig Voh's house. It wasn't long before others heard about the new arrival and came over to see him.

"Oh, tickety good scoff y' make, miz Voh!" the hare said after he had taken a bite of the scones the chieftain's wife had given him. "Does a body good, wot!"

Padraig cleared his throat to get his hungry guest's attention. "Now, mister...I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name..."

"I have the pleasure of being the illustrious Hopscut Billiro Dearbuck," the old hare replied after swallowing a mouthful of scone. "Just came in from up north; Byrnach to be precise."

"Byrnach?" Padraig Voh had heard that name before.

"You are correct, sah. Wasn't safe there, y' know. Under attack, wot."

"What do you mean?" one of the villagers asked.

Hopscut turned in the general direction of the voice's origin. "Well, y' see, my good beast, the Oskneyans have decided to make something of a gamble. So far the war's been a stalemate, wot, and the best way the vermin can get a foothold is to take Byrnach. That's Skaramor's strongest position, see. So, Sigurd Blood-Tooth (fates curse him for blinkin' ever) has attacked in the middle of winter with (as I heard it) four thousand warriors. Since war's usually done in the summer, nobeast saw it coming."

"But Murdoch can still win, can't he?" another beast wanted to know.

"Oh, four thousand would be jolly nothing for the old chap, particularly on his home land. But believe you me, ol' Bloodthingy's got the whole strength of Oskney coming up behind him; it's the only way he'd stand 'alf a chance.  And the closest help Murdoch's got is far away and unaware of the invasion. He'll be overrun in less than a jolly fortnight. That's why I left—I'd rather end me life in some way other than slavery." A sad smile crossed the hare's lips.

Donnal had heard enough. He pushed his way through the small crowd that had gathered at his house and walked until he found a quiet spot. He was incapable of doing anything other than looking at the ground and thinking about what the traveler had said.

Murdoch was in trouble. He wouldn't hold out for long, or so Hopscut had told. Donnal couldn't just sit by and let this happen; he had to do something. But what? His knowledge of battle was not very impressive, but he knew that a hundred and ten militiabeasts wouldn't do much against four thousand Oskneyans. But still, he had to do _something_...

"Donnal?" While the mouse had been lost in his circular track of thought, a few of the other villagers had come up to talk to him. He noticed that they all had something in common: they had trained in the militia with Donnal.

"What do you think?" one of them asked.

That was a foolish question. "I don't know," the chieftain's son told them. "We can try and help Murdoch, but I don't see what we could do. We can fight, yes, but that doesn't mean we can single-pawedly drive off a horde of seasoned killers."

"Maybe we'm daon't harf to," a mole said. "'Opscut zed ee other Skarmorians dedn't know abaout ee h'Oskneyans. We'm can goo an' tell them."

"We don't know the way," a hedgehog countered.

"But we can free up a hundred beasts who do," Donnal said with sudden realization. "Alright, it's not much of a plan, but at least it's something. You all still have your equipment, right?" The militiabeasts nodded their heads. "Good. Now, all we need to do is—"

"Hope your father doesn't mind sending us off to die," the hedgehog interrupted. "I think that could be just the smallest problem, don't you?"

"Let me worry about my father," the young mouse insisted. "The rest of you spread the word; we need everybeast in the militia ready to move as soon as possible."

The militabeasts smiled and gave a joking salute before marching off to do as they were told. Donnal envied them. They would not have to convince the chieftain of Noonvale to go to war.

xxxx

It took Donnal until evening to figure out what he was going to say, and even then he wasn't sure if his words would do anything. Fear gave him pause as he went back to his house; he had memorized his entire speech and still did not feel ready to face his father. After what felt like an eternity standing in front of the door, he took a deep breath and forced himself to get it over with.

Supper was being served. For the time being, Hopscut the hare was staying with the chieftain and his family. He was lavishing a multitude of praises on the evening meal and its cook, but Donnal did not hear them. Great seasons, if he was this nervous about talking to his father about going to war, what would the actual war be like?

"Donnal," Padraig said. The young mouse almost jumped.

"Yes, Father?"

"I asked you if you were all right," the chieftain explained. "I see that's not the case."

"It can wait until later," Donnal said. Was his voice shaking?

Supper was quiet, save for the mercifully constant chatter of Hopscut. He prattled on about this and that, what sort of things he had done before he arrived, and so on. Silently Donnal hoped that the hare would keep talking until supper was well over. Whenever he paused to shovel in more food, Donnal feared that his father would ask what was troubling his son.

Inevitably, the food disappeared and the meal came to an end. The dishes were cleared away, Hopscut rested his old bones on a makeshift bed, and Padraig Voh confronted his son.

"You said that it could wait until later," the old mouse said calmly. "Well, it is later, and I would like to know what 'it' is."

"It's about what Hopscut said," the son began carefully. "About Byrnach being under attack."

"Do not worry about Murdoch," Padraig assured. "I think he can take care of himself."

"But against four thousand? I heard the most soldiers he had was a little over two."

"He is a seasoned fighter, and a shrewd leader, as I hear it. I'm sure this four thousand will be no problem."

"You heard Hopscut, every warrior in Oskney is going to be there. He won't last."

"Nonetheless, my son, there is nothing we can do. The wolf's fate is regrettable, but it is out of our control."

"There is—"  Donnal took a deep breath before continuing. "I want to help him, father."

There was no outburst of anger from the old mouse. Not yet, anyway. "How could you help?" he asked plainly. "One beast would not make a difference."

"No, one beast would not," Donnal replied. "But a hundred and ten might."

And now the outburst came. "Absolutely not!" Padraig erupted. Hopscut made grumbling noises, awoken by the chieftain.

Padraig lowered his voice a little. "This is madness," he insisted. "I will not allow you to go and kill yourself. This discussion is over."

"He's right, wot." Hopscut raised his head and spoke in the old mouse's defense. "Letting a bunch of farmers go off with no bally trainin'—"

"We have been trained," Donnal interrupted. "By Murdoch."

"Oh, well that's different." The ancient hare sat upright to speak more easily. "Not sure you chaps know it, but ol' Murdoch's troops have are the best-trained fighters in the bally Northlands. Top-notch, they are, wot.  It's been said that one of 'is lads is worth three of anybeast else's.  I'm sure the young chap here and 'is friends could take care of themselves (at first)."

Padraig, for once, was unable to speak. Not that he needed to; the look on his face said plenty. He felt betrayed, angry, frustrated...but mostly defeated.

"Father," Donnal said. "You once told me the story of Martin the Warrior, and how beasts from this village helped him defeat a tyrant. You also told me why they helped him. The tyrant threatened to bring the entire region under his rule of fear and slavery. And the villagers knew they could not do much, but they fought anyway to save Noonvale. The Oskneyans are no different from that tyrant, father. If Byrnach falls, sooner or later the Oskneyans will find Noonvale, and what's to stop them from enslaving us like they have so many other places?

"You have always said that a chieftain must look after his tribe. That is why I must go; by fighting the Oskneyans I and the others can help save our tribe. Please, Father."

For the first time in his life, the aging chieftain of Noonvale relented in his decision. "Very well, Donnal," he sighed. "Go. But no foolishness, you hear? Don't take any risks up there that you don't have to. And just..." His voice cracked. "Come home alive, son."

Donnal only nodded and embraced his father. Neither of them spoke for a long time; both were at a loss for words.

"I'll go with 'em," Hopscut volunteered in a soft voice. "I know the way to Byrnach, so I can keep 'em from losin' their way."

"Thank you," Padraig Voh said, but the words could hardly be heard. "Donnal, you should get some sleep tonight. I'll see to it that you get some provisions to last you until you reach Byrnach. Now, get you to bed."

xxxx

The next morning was bright and cold. The militiabeasts had assembled at the north end of the village, bidding their families farewell and promising to come back soon. They had helmets, chainmail, and shields with red roses painted on them—Murdoch and most of the other Skaramorians snorted at their choice of symbol, but didn't try to change their minds. Those who did not have shields used bows and arrows, with which they had practiced the previous day.

Hopscut began to grow impatient with all the goodbyes, wondering if they would ever end. After several minutes, he took matters into his own hands and took a lead position at the front of the band of fighters.

"All right, you lot!" he shouted in a commanding voice. "It's jolly well time to show those blinkin' Osknethingies they can't bully other creatures without a fight! Form up in ranks! Quiiiiiiiiiiiick _march_!"

And with that, the militia of Noonvale set off to protect their homes and families. Virtually all of them felt an odd feeling in their stomachs, as if butterflies were milling about inside them. Not for the first time and not for the last, Donnal remembered the part about Martin the Warrior's story where Rose, the chieftain's daughter, went off to help Martin and never came home alive. He shivered, but not because of the weather.


	21. The Second Wave

The assault, any way you looked at it, was a disaster. Sigurd's warriors were becoming frustrated by the lack of fighting and fearful of the red squirrel who had killed Hrothgar Broad-Paw. The king himself had his concerns about that. What sort of blade could cut through scale armor like that? Not to mention the fact that this Tristan had walked away with at most a few bruises from being hit with the late ferret's shield.

So, the king of Oskney decided that the time had come for his force to attack the little fort in the foothills of Byrnach. A victory now would salvage his warriors' morale and gain him an important pawhold in the mountainous region. He had wanted to wait for his reinforcements, but they were two days late and Sigurd didn't know how much longer he would have to wait. The assault had to be _now_.

And what a pitiful assault it was. Everybeast advanced, but more slowly than usual and with quieter war cries. Sigurd tried to encourage them by moving to the forefront of the advance and yelling the name of his kingdom at the top of his lungs. It helped a little, but not enough to satisfy the king.

The gate of the outpost was old and dilapidated; if the shield breakers were given enough of an opportunity they could hack it apart. Archers peppered the wall above the gate while Sigurd's elite shield breakers rushed the gate and started chopping and hammering away at it. His pikebeasts he held in reserve, while the shields tried to get onto the walls wherever they could use ladders to do so.

At first, the attack appeared to be working. From under his now arrow-filled shield, Sigurd thought things looked to be going quite well. In a short moment half a dozen ladders touched the battlements of the outpost, all of which were knocked back—oh well, so far, so good.

It wasn't long, though, before the assault began to waver. The Skaramorians took to cutting apart the tops of ladders before they knocked them away, rendering them useless. Whenever the shield breakers cut a hole in the gate, a pike was shoved through from the other side, wounding or killing the Oskneyan who had just broken through. The archers were taking heavy casualties from their Skaramorian counterparts. And a few beasts were starting to break and run.

"Keep up the attack!" Sigurd commanded. His voice went unheeded. For every beast that ran from battle, two followed. "Don't give up! Press onward! Carry the day!" None of these inspirational orders were obeyed. In a matter of a few short moments, practically the entire Oskneyan force was in retreat. Nothing their king said or did could convince them to continue to break their heads against the outpost. For what must have been the hundredth time in his life, Sigurd cursed Murdoch and ran away.

xxxx

The next day Murdoch turned a solemn gaze to the battlefield. The dead littered the snowy ground, the winter cold freezing their faces in the masks of pain they wore at their last moments. Blood and arrows kept the bodies company, tinting the snow a strange light red. The wolf lord took in this sight, reflecting on the loss it showed. And then he smiled.

Unless Blood-Tooth's lords arrived now, the Oskneyans were finished. Using the momentum he had gained from the previous day's triumph, Murdoch could have his troops leave the outpost and attack the invaders, probably driving them off. It would take some careful planning, however. Murdoch was still badly outnumbered and only a very good tactic perfectly executed would win the day. The wolf lord had done it before, though, and he could do it again.

Dun Gloir had taken very light casualties. Some Oskneyan archers had hit their marks and a few of the enemy to try and reach the wall tops of the outpost succeeded in killing a few defenders, but that was all. The Oskneyans themselves had lost about two hundred of their number, many of them archers. What little morale they had left was probably gone by now.

As for the counterattack, Murdoch saw no reason to throw any lives away. Sigurd Blood-Tooth might give up and leave now, sparing Byrnach any further trouble. If—and that was quite an if—the enemy were still there in a day or two, then the wolf lord would attack and dirve them from his lands. If not, he could go home and rest for the winter.

xxxx

"I hope we find something before we go back," the hedgehog in Tristan's command remarked. "'Twould be a shame to go stomping around in the snow just to find nothing."

"Can't argue with that," the rat said. "Be a waste of time. Course, if'n the enemy sees us we might end up wid a storm of arrers in our guts."

"We'll be able to spot the enemy long before they could get us in arrow range," Tristan assured them. He was the first to crest the top of a hill, and announced a brief rest from marching. "But we should still avoid being seen if at all possible. The enemy might send their own scouts to pay us a visit if they have any, and they'll speed up their pace to wherever they're going. That'll give the rest of our army less time to prepare for them." He looked around the surrounding countryside and saw nothing that shouldn't have been there.

"Oy, cap'n," the fox interjected. "That look like smoke ter yew?" Tristan averted his gaze over to where the fox indicated.

"Probably," he decided. "If it is, then it's most likely from chimneys in a village. I don't think the Oskneyans would build enough fires in the middle of the day to make that much smoke."

"Unless they're burning a village," one of the shrew brothers added. A silence fell on the troop once those words had been spoken.

"Alright, let's move it," Tristan commanded. At once he and his unit made haste to the source of the smoke.

The sound of shouting spurred the scouts on. A hundred terrible images went through Tristan's mind as he led his beasts over the next hill and into a nightmare.

Oskneyans were everywhere, finishing up the job of laying waste to a hamlet on the side of a mountain. There were more of the invaders than could fit inside the place, and all of them carried the mark of the lord Ragnar Dead-Eye on their shields. The bodies of the villagers, none of whom were armed, littered the ground and stained the snow red. House after house was burning, sending great clouds of black smoke into the sky while any valuables they held were taken away by bloody paws.

"Blimey," the hedgehog whispered. "I think I visited that village once. Nice place, or at least it was one."

"What do we do, Captain?" one of the mice asked Tristan.

For a moment, the captain said nothing. The whole scene reminded him too much, far too much, of when his home had been destroyed for him to answer any questions.

"Captain?" the mouse pressed.

Tristan snapped out of his trance. "Right," he said, "I don't think there are any survivors down there, and it's not worth all our lives to go and find out. Besides, those are Ragnar Dead-Eye's beasts down there—he never takes any prisoners. The best thing we can do right now is warn any nearby settlements and get word to Lord Murdoch as quickly as possible."

The rat alerted him to a group of Oskenyans charging across the snowy field, toward the scouts. "We can take 'em," the fox declared, "there's only a score o' them!"

"And what about the fifty score behind them?" Tristan asked rhetorically. "If you've got slings or bows, use 'em now, but just one shot. Then we'll run." Those scouts who were armed with slings or bows did as they were told, and then the patrol of scouts was in full flight. They went south, in the general direction of the nearest village, but not directly toward it—no sense in leading the enemy to their next target.

Carrying heavy armor and weapons, the scouts' pursuers were in no shape to catch up with their prey. A couple of them had died in the volley of missiles the Skaramorians loosed at them, spurring them on, but eventually they gave up and turned back. After all, there were spoils to be had back at the village.

Once they had lost the Oskneyans, Tristan's unit started directly for the next settlement. They went as fast as they could, taking no rest and eating their lunch as they went. Tristan was glad no hares were with him; not stopping for lunch would be an outrage to them. The other squirrel in the company made a half-hearted protest at the lack of rest, but Tristan paid him no heed. Time was of the essence.

The closest settlement was a small town called Valeguard. Wolhas, an otter, was the magistrate there. He was a sensible beast who very capably kept order in the northern reaches of Murdoch's lands and was well-liked and respected by many. Unfortunately, the most resistance he could offer against the enemy was the local constabulary—about two score lightly armed and trained beasts who were in no shape to fight a war.

After they revealed who they were to the town guards, the scouts were immediately let through the wooden palisade that protected the town. The constables tried to stop Tristan from seeing the magistrate right away, but he paid them no heed—soldiers had little to no respect for constables, viewing them as lazy and cowardly.

Wolhas was in a meeting, planning a festival that was held in Valeguard every winter. He and his guests were quite surprised to see Tristan as he barged into the town hall and curtly introduced himself and requested to see the magistrate.

"I am the magistrate," Wolhas said. "What brings you here, soldier?"

"The Oskneyans have invaded," Tristan replied. "Already a thousand of them are coming in from the north."

"Don't be silly," said one of the constables who tried to stop the scout, "Nobeast fights a war in winter!"

"Then why was every soldier in this area called away, _constable?_" Tristan snapped back. He returned his attention to the magistrate. "I don't know how long it will take the enemy to get here, but we need to move quickly. The lord who comes from the north is Ragnar Dead-Eye; he shows no mercy."

"Wait a minute, lad. If the Oskneyans are coming from the north, why isn't Lord Murdoch up here?"

"Because His Lordship is as yet unaware of them; Sigurd Blood-Tooth is attacking from the east with four thousand warriors. I and my beasts will get word to him as quickly as we can, but you must evacuate this town and make for the citadel."

"The whole town? Right now?"

"_Yes_, magistrate," Tristan said, somewhat frustrated.

"These things take time, Captain."

"Well you haven't got much of it—two days, and that's if we're very lucky."

"All right, if you say so. Don't worry about getting word to His Lordship; I have a messenger who can reach him before the next sunrise—a rabbit. He's the fastest thing on legs."

"Good then. My unit will try to lure the enemy away from the town, but you must still evacuate. Now, if you will excuse me…" Tristan bowed before turning and heading out the door without another word spoken.


	22. Death or Glory

"Keep it movin', chaps," Hopscut told them. "It shouldn't be too much farther."

The hare's stamina was unreal. Far older than any of the Noonvalers and hampered by a cane, Hopscut still managed to look fresh and eager while the militiabeasts were about ready to collapse. They had marched for a day and a night nonstop, hoping to reach Byrnach before it was too late. Meals were small and infrequent, and rest was but a distant memory. Just standing still for a moment was likely to get the old hare upset. "Come on, you lazy beast!" he'd shout. "We ain't got all winter!" And in order to have some peace for a moment, the offending beast would have to start walking again.

The orderly ranks that Donnal and the others had marched in at the beginning of the trek had ceased to exist. The Noonvale Militia was now a vaguely organized mass of a hundred and ten weary fighters struggling to keep up with each other. Donnal had just about had enough of the forced march and somehow made his cold and groggy mind think of a way to convince General Hopscut (as he liked to be called now) to allow for a break—and, with luck, some sleep as well.

"Pardon me, Mister Dearbuck," Donnal said imperiously, "but I think it's about time we had a rest."

"Don't be silly, m'boy," the old hare retorted. "We have a long way to go and a bally short time to get there, wot!"

"Indeed. However, it stands to reason that we'll be fighting when we get to Byrnach, yes? Yes. So, if we arrive tired and hungry, we won't be much use in a fight, now will we? It seems to me that a rest would be a sharp tactical maneuver." The young mouse made sure to use language that would appeal to the abrasive Hopscut's sense of military ability.

"Why, when you put it like that, I guess it would, wot!" the hare chirped. "All right, laddies," he shouted for all to hear, "let's have a quick rest before the battle, wot!"

On cue, the militabeasts thanked Donnal and the fates and stopped; half of them fell face-first into the snow and went to sleep then and there. Hopscut himself was the first to suggest a snack—which to a hare meant what most other beasts considered a three-course meal. Indeed, Donnal wondered if they would have any food left by the time they reached Byrnach, the way the old hare was going.

A little before dawn, everybeast woke up and decided it was time to get moving again. Hopscut took a little more prodding to rouse than the other beasts, but once he was awake and filled with breakfast, he went immediately back to egging the militia forward. By this time the Noonvalers had learned to ignore the abrasive veteran (at least it was assumed he was a veteran). They were so good at it that at first they paid no attention to his announcement that they had arrived at Murdoch's domain.

The Noonvale Militia exited the trees and saw a wide, snowy plain stretching to a horizon dominated by a great cluster of mountains. Far ahead of them, a little off to the right, thousands of Oskneyans were camped out.

"Right then, chaps," Hopscut said rather quickly, "here ye are, Byrnach, now it's about time I took my leave, wot! Those unsavory characters on the right are the enemy, that fort in the foothills should be where Lord Murdoch is, good luck to ye an' remember your trainin' see you lot later goodbye!" He turned on his heel and began walking briskly back the way they had come.

Needless to say, the grizzled hare's words did little to encourage the militiabeasts. Many began to wonder aloud if they should return. Acting quickly, Donnal stood before them and implored them to stay.

"We may not be wolves or badgers or nomads who live by the sword," he said, "but that does not mean we are weak! We are indebted to Murdoch for his services. Why come this far, only to abandon him now? My friends, the Oskneyans threaten not only these lands, but our home as well! They must be stopped! Yes, we may die here. But I would rather die fighting now than hide and wait for my home to be brought into chains! Who is with me?"

A chorus of voices told him that everybeast present was with him. Donnal smiled and shouted, "Then let's go! Quiiiick march!"

A hundred and ten brave beasts marched in loose formation to the battlefield, not knowing whether death or glory awaited them.

And then all hell broke loose.

xxxx

Kragg the lookout was back at his post in the top of the tower at Dun Gloir, making sure there was no suspicious activity among the Oskneyans. It was a tedious job, very tedious indeed, but it was better than getting beaten by his father back home.

All of a sudden, the enemy became excited by something. Many of them, particularly those at the southern end of the encampment, were getting up and arming themselves. It looked like they were planning another assault on the outpost. This was not good; that gate couldn't take much more punishment…

Then a few Oskneyans started moving south. Curious, Kragg looked ahead of them to see if there was anything there—and there was. About a hundred armed beasts were marching up, carrying no banner and apparently paying no attention to the barbarians coming toward them.

Sensing something was wrong, the sharp-eyed rat skittered down the stairs and went into the room where Lord Murdoch was meeting with his captains.

"Sigurd is like tae put his pikes on his flanks," the wolf lord was saying. "We need tae draw them intae a position where we can trap them—aye what is it?" he demanded when he saw Kragg.

"My lord, the enemy are moving. I think they move to attack this group of beasts coming from the south…"

"What banner do they march under?" the wolf asked, a trace of worry in his voice.

"None, lord. But their shields bear no mark I have seen before. I think it's a rose."

"The militia!" Jalryk exclaimed. "Those idjits; wot do they think they're doing!?"

"Repayin' a debt," Murdoch guessed in a low growl. "Right then, here's what we'll do. Argyle an' Jalryk, ah want ye tae attack the enemy head-on. Ah an' the pikes will try tae cut the Oskneyans off afore they reach the Noonvalers. Noo get the troops ready; we need tae move fast!"

The meeting was adjourned and Kragg was sent back to his post. The captains went out to rally their beasts and prepare for battle. While Murdoch was busy coordinating the chaos, he was approached by a squirrel.

"My lord," the squirrel said, "what part shall my force play?"

"D'ye have a name?" the wolf retorted.

"Yes, lord. I am Spenser, the uh, commander of Dun Gloir."

Murdoch nodded. He vaguely remembered this beast, and he remember clearly that everybeast in the fates-forsaken fort had disgraced himself in some way.

"Cover the left flank," he ordered. "Ah hope yaer blades an' skills have no' dulled over the seasons."

Spenser grinned from ear to ear. "No, my lord, they have not!" He practically ran off to assemble his motley crew of fighters, all of them eager to find redemption in battle. The left flank was not likely to be very active, but it still would have been a vulnerable point in the battle line.

With all of the speed and efficiency that made them famed throughout the Northlands, Murdoch's beasts readied themselves for battle. Argyle's command would exit the fort first, followed by Murdoch and the pikes. The soldiers of Dun Gloir would go last, a fact which they disliked but did not fight.

In almost no time the outpost's defenders had developed their formations, and then the battle began in earnest. There was no way Murdoch and the pikes could reach the Noonvalers before the Oskneyans did; the militiabeasts would have to survive on their own for a while. Jalryk's beasts filled in the gap between Argyle and Murdoch, taunting and daring the enemy to attack them. Spenser and the others who had been banished to Dun Gloir eagerly charged the Oskneyans' unprepared northern flank, almost sending them into a retreat.

Kragg wished that he could have been down there, in the thick of the fighting. That way he could have warned his comrades about the roughly nine thousand Oskneyans coming in from the east.

xxxx

Meanwhile, in the northern reaches of Byrnach, Tristan and his company were struggling mightily to delay the Oskneyan force invading from the north. They had staked out a position on a high road that led off to the west, away from the nearly defenseless town. A rather large rock gave them a nice shield in case of an arrow storm, a prospect that looked more and more likely as Ragnar Dead-Eye's archers started moving into position.

"We can't keep this up forever," one of the mice said as he loosed a shaft at the invaders.

"I'm well aware of that, soldier," Tristan retorted. "We don't _have_ to keep it up forever, just long enough to let Wolhas evacuate his citizens." An enemy arrow sailed through the air and slammed into the chest of the other squirrel in the company. He coughed up some blood and collapsed dead in the snow.

"Those bastards," the fox spat. "I was just startin' ter like him."

Tristan looked forlornly at the slain squirrel. He couldn't have been older than fifteen seasons. Now he was dead, and Tristan realized that he didn't even know his name.

"You lads look like you could use some relief!" a voice from further down the road chirped. Tristan saw Lennox and his company jogging toward the embattled scouts. The aging shrew never liked to sit out of battle; he preferred to be out in the field with the scouts he commanded.

"Glad you could join the party, sir," Tristan told him as he saluted. "Where'd you come from?"

"Little nor'west o' here," the shrew replied as he loaded his sling. "There's a thousand o' the blighters headed this way; must've gone too far west." He twirled the sling and launched a stone at the Oskneyans led by the ruthless Dead-Eye. "So what exactly are we doin' here, mate? Hopin' to drive off the enemy single-pawed?"

"Valeguard is a little ways south of here. All they've got to protect them is a few score of constables, so we're hoping that the enemy will think we're protecting whatever's up this road here and attack it instead of the town."

"Gotcha. But we'd better move soon or we'll get caught between these blighters and the ones I saw coming a while back."

"Archers!" somebeast shouted. At once the scouts crowded behind the great rock that was their shield. Like so many raindrops, shafts clattered on the rock in a hail. Nobeast was hurt, but that might change next time. Carefully Lennox poked his head around the rock and announced that the Oskneyans were getting ready for a second volley.

"As soon as this is over," he commanded, "we run up the road and through that pass."

Tristan didn't know how long it took for the second volley to land, but it felt like forever. For several heartbeats, nobeast spoke as the sound of over a hundred shafts whistled through the air. This storm was more accurate than the first; nobeast was hurt but a few shafts came close. Then as one all of the scouts surged forward, running to a small pass with as much speed as they could muster. By the time the enemy launched another storm, the scouts were already through the pass and out of sight.

"All right; now what do we do?" Lennox asked of nobeast in particular.

"Running for our lives sounds mighty appealing," said a hedgehog in Lennox's unit. "They're sending shield breakers up the road."

"What!?" The old shrew looked back and saw several Oskneyans carrying large weapons hurrying in pursuit of the scouts. "I thought Blood-Tooth was the only one who had them. Alright, we'll se if we can send them on a wild goose chase or something."

Tristan got a good look at the shield breakers. They were Sigurd Blood-Tooth's elite warriors; their sole purpose in battle and in life was to charge an enemy shield-wall and attempt to break the formation. It was said that before a battle they drank a potion that made them mad with bloodlust. A terrible foe to face, they nonetheless lived very short lives, as they wore no armor. Suddenly a thought struck the squirrel, and he saw another way to avenge his brother.

"I think we can fight them," he suggested.

"Captain, those are bloody shield breakers down there. Have you lost your damn mind?" It seemed Lennox was not warm to the idea.

"No, sir. We outnumber them two to one. We can get out of sight and gain the element of surprise. They don't wear armor after all, and if we fight it'll look like we're protecting something up here instead of down there."

Lennox chewed his lip for a moment, agonizing over the decision. "Alright," he said, "I think I know how we can do this."

xxxx

Howling battle cries, reveling in their lust for Skaramorian blood, the shield breakers charged up the road and through the pass. When they got there, they found nothing. There were tracks in the snow, but in their madness the Oskneyans could not tell where they led. As one they stomped forward, scanning the area for anything that might lead them to the slaughter they sought.

Then, from behind them, they heard somebeast shout, "_Bua go Skaramor!_" The warrior in the back of the group was run through with a rapier and screamed in pain for a very long moment before dying.

All around the shield breakers, beasts began popping out of the deep snow and attacking them before they knew what was happening. A red squirrel wielding both spear and sword killed two of the insane warriors in quick succession. In a fit of rage, a grey squirrel with a large flail lunged at him. For several moments, red squirrel and gray exchanged blows, blocking and dodging with equal ferocity.

The Oskneyan swung his flail in a huge overhand arc, only to get its chain wrapped around the sword his opponent held. Tristan's spear lanced forward to strike the final blow, but the Oskneyan managed to drop his flail and wrench the weapon away. A dagger found its way into the grey squirrel's side, a dagger that had come from behind. Howling with rage, the shield breaker whirled around and faced a little mouse holding a bloodied dagger. The Oskneyans rained blows upon his new enemy, eventually knocking him down. He laughed wildly as he drove the point of the spear into the little mouse's body again and again before his head was removed by a sword.

Tristan kicked away the corpse of the grey squirrel, pausing to look at the mouse. If only he had freed Martin's sword from the chain of the flail a little more quickly…

"Well, that did the trick," Lennox announced, looking grimly down the road. "All the rest of them are coming this way. _Now_ we run for our lives." None of the scouts disputed this order. Immediately they started to leave the area. Tristan paused when he saw one of the shrews in his company standing still and staring at the scene of carnage.

"My brother," he said in a hollow voice. "They killed my little brother." Tristan looked again and saw the shrew's brother, split almost in two.

"Come on, soldier," was all the squirrel captain said in reply as he pulled his scout away. A wave of shame washed over him. In his desire to avenge his little brother, he had taken away somebeast else's. If he had ever felt worse, he could not remember when.


	23. A Wall of Roses

For Shilly, waiting around the keep to hear something new about what was happening in the east was bad enough. Now it seemed that there was some other crisis rearing its head that she didn't know about. A rabbit had shown up at the citadel asking for Murdoch. Lady Caitriona received him instead, and asked what the matter was. Upon hearing the news, she sent the messenger to the eastern outpost and sent an order out to the constables to be ready to receive another herd of refugees. Shilly had not been present when the rabbit gave his news, and when she asked Caitriona what it was the squirrelmaid was told that she didn't want to know—a blatant lie if there ever was one.

Shilly was standing on the balcony, wondering what the news was and if Tristan was all right. A hundred horrible images flowed through her mind, making her tremble in fear of the unknown. The situation was dire, she knew, and possibly everybeast in Byrnach was going to die. Or not. She wanted so badly to know what was going on out there in the battlefield, but if she left the citadel she wouldn't be able to find her way around. It was lunchtime, but the young squirrelmaid had no appetite.

Two voices floated Shilly's way from inside. It was a pair of guards, talking in defeated tones of what was happening.

"It's all over," said one. "The whole army's off outnumbered in the east; we're cut off from any help from the north—we're all going to die, aren't we?"

"Prob'ly," the other guard replied. "There are worse ways ter die than dyin' in battle."

"What difference does it make _how_ you die?" the first moaned. "Any way it happens your still dead. I don't know about you," he continued in a hushed voice, "but I'm thinking of getting out of here. We might be able to slip out before the Oskneyans come."

There followed the sound of a paw striking somebeast in the head, and then the first guard yelped.

"Bloody coward!" the second guard snapped. "You want ter run, you'll have ter get past me first! Think ye can do that?" The first guard said nothing.

"That's what I thought," sneered the second. "Now let's finish our rounds." The pawsteps resumed, soon disappearing into the distance.

Stunned by this new information, Shilly hurried through the keep to find Yooch and tell him. When she did, the young mole was almost overtaken by dread. He voiced the possibility that Shilly was trying to keep out of her head: that they might never see Redwall again.

"I can't believe this is happening," Shilly said in a hollow voice. She sat down heavily in a chair. "I wish there was something we could do besides sit around and wait for it all to be over."

Yooch nodded his velvety head. "Oi wish we'm worr back at ee h'abbey," he mused. Shilly nodded, but said nothing. For some reason she could not identify, she did not share her friend's sentiment.

xxx

Seven Noonvalers were dead, and many more had been traumatized by their first taste of real battle. Sad, yes, but they could have taken much heavier losses—many of them didn't realize it, but they were very lucky today. After a lifetime spent getting looks from his father, Donnal saw this and more in Murdoch's expression.

The wolf lord regarded the young mouse and his comrades with a grave, though slightly impressed, face as he cleaned the blood off of his sword. After an hour of intense fighting, the defenders of Byrnach were once again behind the battered outpost's walls. Many were annoyed at the milita's presence at the battle, but deep down they knew they would need every fighter they could get. Those who had been stationed at the eastern outpost thought of the Noonvalers as heroes, having allowed the disgraced soldiers to fight once more.

Sigurd Blood-Tooth was no doubt trying to convince his demoralized force that the engagement this day was a victory, and there was no doubt that his warriors did not believe him. The Skaramorians were one step closer to victory. Soon Murdoch would strike the final blow against his enemy. For now, however, there was another matter to attend to.

"Well, yaer here," he said to Donnal. "Noo what did ye think ye were doin'?"

"We came to help you," the young mouse replied as evenly as he could. "We heard about the Oskneyan invasion, and we thought you could use a few extra fighters."

Murdoch grunted. "Confidence o' youth," he said, as though he were correcting the mouse. "Very well. As it stands, Noonvale is in debt to the kingdom of Skaramor for mah services trainin' you lot. Fight wid me here and the debt will be repaid in full."

Donnal cautiously looked back at his comrades, looking for some guidance. Nobeast said anything, but many of them were nodding their heads.

"We accept," he answered.

"Good. Tend tae yaer wounded an' get some rest. In a while ah'll call ye tae a meeting so we can plan our next move."

Murdoch turned on his heel and strode off to check on the rest of his troops. He only got a few paces before Kragg the rat came scurrying up to him acting like the world was coming to an end.

"My lord!" he shrieked. "The Oskneyans are coming."

"They're already here, idiot."

"No," the rat gasped. "Bood-Tooth's reinforcements—they've arrived."

Immediately the wolf lord charged up the stairs to the wall top, where the sentries had fixed their eyes on the enemy camp. Either nine thousand Oskneyans had appeared out of nowhere, or the lookout had been telling the truth. What had once been a simple siege camp was now a vast sea of iron, fur, and campfires. The enemy camp was so immense now that from where he stood Murdoch could not see all of it at once.

"Hell and damnation," Murdoch whispered. "Summon mah captains," he ordered. He didn't care who carried out the order, so long as somebeast did.

The captains had much the same reaction as their lord. Donnal in particular was awed, first by seeing more beasts in one place than he had in his life and then by realizing that they were all intent on killing him. He began visibly shaking.

"We cannae hold against so many," Argyle declared grimly.

"Ah know that," Murdoch replied absently.

"They got catapults, too," Jalryk observed. "They'll tear this place apart."

"Ah know!" Murdoch barked. He bowed his head. "We must leave the ootpost," he decided. "Drog, get all the archers up here on the walls. Everybeast else, get ready tae evacuate. We'll go taenight, under cover of darkness; we'll leave torches and campfires lit so it looks lahk we're still here. Drog, you an' yaer archers will stay up here until everybeast is oot. Then we'll make our way back tae the citadel tae make our stand."

A murmur of aye's went through the captains. Then, wordlessly, they went about following their orders.

xxxx

When Lennox felt fairly confident that the scouts had lost the Oskneyans, he gave the order to turn back on to the path to the citadel. If the scouts' timing was correct, they would link up with the refugees of Valeguard on their trek to safety. The shrew did not think that the enemy would find them again any time soon, but he still told everybeast to stay alert—leaving anything to chance in battle was a very risky thing to do.

Tristan remained quiet throughout the march, feeling responsible for every scout that had been killed in that fight at the pass. Never before had he wanted to do something like that, so what was different now? It was still the same war and he was still the same creature fighting the same enemy. Nothing had changed.

No, he realized, something had changed—Olaf Iron-Rod was dead. It was Olaf who had enslaved him and murdured his brother. It was against Olaf that Tristan has sworn vengeance. Now any chance of that vengeance was gone, and Tristan's reason for living went with it—didn't it? He sighed heavily. He needed to sort all this out, but he didn't know how.

They stopped to camp for the night, eating a meager supper and getting little sleep in the winter chill. As soon as the sky turned light, Tristan and Lennox got everybeast up and moving. The sun had not yet crested over the mountains before the scouts found their charges.

"There they are!" The surviving mouse in Tristan's company was pointing to a large group of beasts moving south through the valley. They were unarmed save for a few beasts with spears positioned around the edges of the group.

"All right then, let's go say hello so they know it's us," Lennox ordered casually. "Once that's finished we'll follow at the back so we can hold off any Oskneyans that come our way."

"Those constables better help us if it comes to that," Tristan's fox grumbled. "I tell yer, they're all lazy scum."

"Nobeast is going to argue that," Tristan remarked. "Myself least of all."

After the refugees recognized the scouts as being on their side and they calmed down, Lennox and Tristan told Wolhas the magistrate what had happened. The otter thanked the scouts profusely and assured them that if they were ever in need of anything, he would be more than happy to help them. As per Lennox's orders, the scouts hung back a little in case Ragnar Dead-Eye found them again.

He did. One moment all was quiet; the next a shrill Oskneyan war cry broke the silence like glass. It was soon followed by screams and panicking among the refugees of Valeguard, who stopped dead in their tracks and looked around wildly for the source of the noise.

"Over there!" one of Lennox's beasts shouted, pointing at a lone figure on a hill. The elaborate armor, shield, and imposing size left no doubt: this was Ragnar Dead-Eye himself. In a matter of heartbeats he was joined by a throng of howling warriors, all hell-bent on the slaughter of the helpless beasts below them. Without form or discipline, they swarmed down the hill like an evil flood, each of them hoping to reach the refugees first.

"Everybeast run for it!" Lennox bellowed. "We're not far from the citadel now; take your weapons but leave everything else!"

Nobeast hesitated in following Lennox's advice. Belongings were left strewn about the ground as the Skaramorians ran for their lives, desperately hoping they could reach safety before it was too late. The foremost of Ragnar's troops fell upon the abandoned items, plundering to their heart's content while anybeast not lucky enough to get to this treasure ran onward to satisfy their bloodlust.

Tristan saw an old mouse stumble and fall in the retreat, ignored and almost left behind. He gathered the poor creature up and helped him to his footpaws, almost dragging him along and gradually falling behind the rest of the group.

"Leave me," the old mouse wheezed.

"No," Tristan replied simply.

"I'm only slowing you down. For fates' sake, I've lived my life! If you don't let me go we'll both die!"

"I'm not leaving you!"

The old mouse, gathering up what was left of his strength, wrested himself out of the squirrel's grip and collapsed in the snow.

"Go! Now!" he pleaded.

With a lump forming in his throat, Tristan left him and ran. He did not look back.

xxxx

If there was one thing Murdoch hated, it was retreating. It was not in the nature of wolves to retreat; if they ever left a fight it was to withdraw and lure the enemy into a trap. Knowing this perfectly well, everybeast avoided the wolf lord and his cousin whenever they could. After all, being around an angry wolf was not conducive to a long and healthy life.

Aonghas and his pikebeasts guarded the rear. If Sigurd Blood-Tooth caught up with them, he was likely to send in his shield breakers first—and a wall of pikes held off shield breakers remarkably well. Drog and the archers were just in front of them, with Jalryk's troops and the Noonvalers taking the front. It was a long column of soldiers that snaked their way along the valley road to the citadel. They had not stopped marching all through the night; hoping to put as much distance between themselves and the enemy as possible.

By dawn they were exhausted. Although he was reluctant to do so, Murdoch called a halt and let his warriors rest for a while. Many of them could hardly stand up; some went to sleep right then and there. After a few hours, Murdoch ordered them forward again, and they obeyed.

Along the way, a rabbit came running up the road, panting heavily and begging to speak with Lord Murdoch, for he had an urgent message. That was when the wolf lord learned of the Oskneyan army coming down from the north: their line of communication with the rest of Skaramor was cut off. Any hope of receiving a relief army now rested on the scouts who had been sent north; always assuming that they were still alive.

Before the sun had passed over the mountain peaks, the citadel at last hove into view. Never had the soldiers of Byrnach seen a more welcome sight; the Noonvalers were struck dumb with awe by the scene. They had thought Dun Gloir was big, but the very walls of Murdoch's citadel dwarfed it many times over. Like Shilly and Yooch a few days prior, they could not wait to see the inside.

Their curiosity would have to wait before it could be sated, however. Murdoch placed the militia, along with a hundred shields, just north of the gate to warn the rest of the army if the northern invaders came. Shaking with anticipation of something he could not quite place, Donnal and his comrades held their ground and kept a sharp eye out, waiting for something to happen.

They did not wait long. Only a few minutes had passed before a large group of beasts came hurrying down the road, and when they saw the Skaramorians who were with the militia they ran faster and started screaming for sanctuary. The Oskneyans were right behind them, some said.

Off in the distance, more screams floated in, echoing off the high sides of the valley. But these screams were different—these were not screams of fear or worry, these were ferocious, terrible screams. These were war cries of the Oskneyan horde. Icy fear gripped Donnal's heart. The battle on the fields outside the eastern outpost was bad, but something in Donnal's heart told him that the coming fight would be far, far worse.

As soon as the fleeing civilians passed by, the Noonvalers and Skaramorians hastily formed a shield-wall and prepared to face the coming onslaught. Then a small group of armed beasts who were clearly not Oskneyans raced into view, frequently throwing anxious glances over their shoulders.

"You there!" boomed a tough-looking old shrew. "For fates' sake, let us pass!"

"Too late!" a squirrel shouted. An immense body of enemy warriors emerged from around the bend, chanting something in their harsh tongue and tightening the grip of fear around Donnal's heart. The instant they set eyes on the handful of defenders, they broke into a full-on charge. There was no way they could hold out against so many of the invaders.

And to make matters worse, more war cires began sounding from down the road leading to the eastern outpost—Sigurd Blood-Tooth had followed Murdoch the entire way. The Noonvalers and their companions were too far from the citadel's gate to just run for it.

"Up the ridge!" the squirrel exclaimed.

"What!?" the shrew demanded.

"Trust me! I've got an idea!"

There was no time to waste arguing. The Noonvalers and Skaramorians had no choice but to follow the squirrel up a high ridge and hope that the high ground would give them an advantage. In fact, it gave more of an advantage than anybeast thought.

Jubilantly giving chase, the warriors of Ragnar Dead-Eye and some other enemy lord Tristan did not recognize hurled themselves up the steep slope of the ridge, and when they reached the top to slaughter their enemies they were at once blinded. Tristan's idea had exactly the effect he had intended—with the morning sun shining in their eyes, the Oskneyans could not see where they were swinging their weapons. It was all too easy to beat them back; they stayed and fought for only a few moments before withdrawing. For a while, at least, the defenders of Byrnach were safe.

"Not a bad idea, lad," Lennox said to Tristan when the fighting had lulled. "But I think a found a flaw in it: we can't get down now. We're outnumbered about ten to one and there's a sheer straight drop on the other side o' this ridge."

"I know," the squirrel sighed. He gave a small, rueful laugh. "Probably should've thought of that."

They looked down at the mass of Oskneyans gathered at the bottom of the slope. Farther off, the refugees and other soldiers milled into the gate and disappeared while Blood-Tooth's force came ever closer, unseen but very easy to hear.

"I always thought I'd die in bed, surrounded by my wife and offspring," a mouse standing next to them mused. He didn't look like one of Murdoch's beasts; his shield bore the mark of a rose instead of an eagle.

"You're not from around here," Lennox guessed.

"No, I'm not," the mouse admitted. "I am Donnal, of the Noonvale Militia." Donnal told the scouts his tale; how his father the chieftain had snubbed the wolf lord and how the militia made the decision to come and make amends. They were impressed, he could tell.

"The bravest act of stupidity I've ever heard of," Lennox declared. "I'm Lennox, the commander of all the scouts of Byrnach. This here's Tristan, one of my captains."

"Pleased to meet you," the young mouse replied. "Now, um, we're not going to die up here, are we?"

The scouts said nothing, but their expressions told Donnal all he needed to know. "Ah," he said in a quavering voice.

Tristan raised up his gleaming sword, idly turning it in his paw and admiring how it caught the sunlight. "Funny how things work out," he said. "I lost my entire unit and almost died to get this thing so it could save the Northlands only to die now and probably let it end up in the hands of the Oskneyans."

"Aye, but what can ye do?" Lennox answered. "Our place ain't to wonder why things happen, just to take them as they come. We're soldiers. Soldiers to the first and soldiers to the last."

"To the last full measure of devotion," Tristan said, completing the age-old oath.

"That measure ain't always dyin', Tristan," the old shrew told him. He gave a meaningful look.

Was he wise to the squirrel? Did he know why Tristan wanted to fight those shield breakers? It didn't really matter now, given the circumstances. The trio agreed that the best option they had was to wait for the sun to crest over the ridge until it was in the enemies' eyes, then charge down and go out fighting—what little hope they had in escaping lay there. So they waited.

xxxx

The sun rose over the mountain peaks, and Sigurd's thirteen thousand warriors came storming down the road from the eastern outpost. War chants and drum beats filled the air, promising doom to all who stood against them. Any damage to their morale had apparently been repaired by the immense body of reinforcements. From his vantage point on the walls, Murdoch saw them coming and ably suppressed his fear. He also saw the Noonvale militia making a stand with a number of his soldiers on a high ridge. He did not pity them; they all knew the risks when they agreed to fight.

Shilly and Yooch had been asking around to see if Tristan was back yet. No, they were told, none of the scouts were back yet. And It was unlikely that any of them would, at least while the citadel was besieged. They had gone back to the keep, which they might never leave if Byrnach fell.

The sun climbed ever higher, approaching noon. Up on their ridge, the Noonvalers had formed a shield-wall, preparing to charge when the Oskneyans below them would be blinded by the sun if they looked up. It looked like there were scouts with them, too. And one of them was holding a very shiny sword. Strange…

Jalryk was walking up to make a report when he saw the same gleam Murdoch had. "My lord!" he exclaimed. "Do you see that light over there!?"

"Yes. What aboot it?"

"Lord, the only sword I've seen that catches the light like that it the sword of Martin the Warrior. _Tristan's got Martin's sword_!"

The realization struck the wolf lord like a thunderbolt. "Assemble every beast ye can," he commanded. "Have the gate opened, and then go get 'em. We'll have tae hurry; Blood-Tooth's almost here!"

Chaos erupted in the barracks as Murdoch's orders were carried out. Several hundred shields and pikes stormed out of the gate and headed straight for the ridge. Having not expected a sudden rescue mission, the Oskneyans were caught off guard and had barely managed to form a shield-wall when the Skaramorian charge struck. In a coincidence so unlikely that many called it a miracle, the sun reached the position Lennox and the others had been waiting for.

"_Bua go Skaramor_!" the shrew yelled. As one the beasts trapped at the top of the ridge hurdled down the slope with the sun at their backs, driving into the enemy ranks before they could form. Tristan eagerly went in the front, striking down a regally dressed grey squirrel. It was fast, fierce fighting that followed. Unable to hold against Jalryk's attack and unable to see Tristan's, the Oskneyans force was quickly split in two.

It was all the Skaramorians needed to get their previously besieged comrades out of the area. What was once an aggressive attack quickly became a desperate retreat as Sigurd Bood-Tooth'sarmy marched in to where they saw the meager rescue force. Ragnar Dead-Eye and his companion force were forgotten in the mad dash to reach the safety of the citadel's gate.

The Oskneyans under Sigurd broke ranks and tried to put an end to Jalryk's rescue mission, but a storm of arrows from the wall pinned them down before they got very far. A mighty groan sounded as the gate opened and the soldiers behind it urged their brothers-in-arms to run faster before they were caught. The moment the last beast from the ridge was on the safe side of the wall, the gate was shut as quickly as possible.

With the sword of Martin the Warrior safe inside the citadel, Murdoch settled in and prepared for a long siege.


	24. Before the Dawn

It was surreal, like watching somebeast else's nightmare from a distance. From so far away, the shouts and clamor of the battle came upon Shilly's ears as quiet as whispers. There was a sound like thunder, like something was beating at the gate. Over the din, a single voice gave an unintelligible order, and Shilly could here a fire flaring up all of a sudden, followed by terrible screams of pain. The squirrelmaid did not want to know what all this meant.

She was sitting next to Tristan on a high windowsill; neither of them said anything. For now they just wanted to enjoy each other's company, creating a safe haven from all that had happened. Several weeks had passed since the soldier had arrived at Redwall, several weeks since Shilly had stayed up all night watching over him in the infirmary. He seemed so helpless then, so frail and fragile that it looked as though he might depart for the Dark Forest at any moment.

Shilly wasn't quite sure when it was that she realized she loved him. Maybe it was when he came back through the citadel's gate, hurt but alive. Maybe it was when he saved her from that slave camp, or maybe it was that first night in the infirmary. But love him she did, and she knew he loved her back.

"There are times," Tristan mused, when I wonder what things would have been like if none of this had ever happened—if the Oskneyans had never come, if my family were still alive. Would I still be a fighter? Or would I be a farmer?

"What would my brother be like today? Or my mother and father; what would they say if they could see me now? They were such peaceable creatures. I can't help but wonder if they'd be ashamed of me."

"Don't talk like that," Shilly chided. "You risked your life to save others. You kept going on your quest when most other beasts would have given up, and you've brought hope to the Northlands that the Oskneyans can be stopped. Trust me; your whole clan would be proud of you if they were here now. We can't always change the circumstances of our lives. Sometimes we just have to find the good in things."

Tristan turned to her and smiled. "I think I can do that," he said.

At the wall, the battle still raged, threatening doom to all the creatures of Byrnach. But as long as Tristan and Shilly were together, they did not care.

xxxx

The siege had gone on for three days now, and Sigurd Blood-Tooth was starting to worry. He did not know how successful the smaller part of his army had been in cutting off Murdoch from the north. From Ragnar Dead-Eye's report, it sounded as though the enormous ferret had been more concerned with looting and pillaging than cutting off the enemy's communication. It was entirely possible that King Bannock was already on his way with a relief force.

Even worse, Svein Truth-Speaker was slain. Svein had been a good and loyal vassal; Sigurd was truly sorry to lose him. Besides, he had been one of the few lords who really respected his king. His loss meant there was one less voice to speak in favor of the King of the Red Tooth.

But the news got worse. Reports from many of Svein's soldiers told of how a red squirrel wielding a shining sword had struck down Truth-Speaker in the fight at the ridge. But that was not as disturbing as what other reports said—that the shining sword had gone right through Svein's shield. Sigurd examined the body himself and looked at the shield his lord had been holding. There was indeed a rent in it, about the right size to look like it had been split by a single blow.

Now that the two parts of his army had joined, rumors were spreading faster and more fantastically than ever. Those who were with Sigurd during the siege of the outpost shared their tale of how Hrothgar Broad-Paw, who was famous for his skill in duels, had been slain in a challenge by an unarmored red squirrel wielding a shining sword.

Well that settled it: surely this red squirrel must be an invincible spirit-warrior who would bring ruin upon the Oskneyan horde for some sin that they had committed. Sigurd killed the tan rat who had told him this theory and dismissed it as nonsense, but his superstitious warriors continued to believe it still. Actually, in the back of his mind the king himself wondered if it might be true.

Sigurd shook his head and left his tent, where his supper had been ignored in favor of his worries. The sky was gradually darkening, and soon the fight at Murdoch's wall would be set aside for the night. The wall of the citadel was high, and the ladders the army had brought with it were simply not long enough to reach the tops. The solution to that problem for now was to lash multiple ladders together so that they could get warriors to the battlements. Tomorrow would see if that plan could work.

To Sigurd, of course, that was not the worst of the problems—that title went to the red squirrel who killed his favorite lord. His name, etched on to the king's memory since that day at the outpost, was Tristan. Simply by giving the enemy fighters a hero, he had done more damage the Sigurd's army than Murdoch ever had. Good morale was vital to a successful campaign, and the more this Tristan's legend spread the worse the Oskneyans' morale got.

There was one way in which this matter could be settled, one way in which the red squirrel's legend could be struck down and the army's morale restored. But it was risky, and there was absolutely no guarantee it would work and if it didn't, then the battle for Byrnach—and quite possibly the entire war—would be lost. It was a desperate gamble, one that would have to be a last resort. But Sigurd had a feeling that it would come to it sooner or later.

xxxx

The fourth day of the siege saw no change, no relief, and no reason to believe that anybeast would be coming to Byrnach's rescue. The Oskneyans had found a way to make their ladders longer, but not to get them on the walls. Catapults regularly launched their stone missiles at the citadel, causing little damage but a great deal of worry: little by little, they would chip away at the wall until it broke open.

Even then, of course, the invaders would have to fight uphill. But they were too many to hold off indefinitely. When the wall was breached, the battle would be as good as lost. By Murdoch's reckoning, the wall could stand up for perhaps three more days. Plans were being drawn up to destroy, disable, or otherwise incapacitate the catapults, but this would only delay the inevitable.

Surprisingly, despite the crowded conditions and bleak future, the town was rather calm. The constables reported no sudden increase in crime, there were no riots—everything was under control. It was probably the only good news in the last several days. Fate had a funny way of doing things.

Another rock slammed into the wall, but Murdoch had since learned to ignore these disturbances while he was going over his plans. Right now he was looking at a diagram for a mechanism that was supposed to fling large burning objects over the wall, preferably at the catapults. So far there had been no word on how accurate this thing was supposed to be or how quickly it could be constructed. Sighing heavily, the wolf lord wrote a note approving the construction of the device but saying that the designer would have to find his own workforce for the task—soldiers were needed at the wall.

Setting the note and diagram aside, Murdoch produced a map of Byrnach and tried to determine where the northern attackers had come from and if they might have found any of his scouts. After studying the map long and hard, he determined that he had no idea. The fate of his realm was left up to fate.

Night eventually fell, and the fighting paused until the darkness faded away. The following morning Murdoch went to the battlements instead of his chambers. Perhaps some fighting would lighten his mood.

The Oskneyans did the same thing they had done for the last few days—try to get ladders on the walls, hurl rocks at other parts, and try to get a battering ram up to the gate. That last maneuver was proving costly; the warriors who moved the ram were constantly barraged by arrows, rocks, and flaming versions thereof. The winding road to the gate was littered with corpses of those not fortunate enough to reach the gate.

At midday the worst happened. One of the massive rocks flung by the enemy catapults slammed against the wall particularly hard, creating just the most subtle impression of a ripple. The event did not escape Murdoch's attention, nor did its meaning: that section of the wall was about to give. Sigurd was no fool; in moments every catapult he had would focus on assailing that point in Byrnach's defenses.

"Everybeast off that part o' wall!" Murdoch roared. The order was obeyed immediately, even though some had not heard it: they knew what was about to happen.

Slowly, inevitably, the catapults were turned and aimed at the wall's weak point while shield breakers got in front of the army, ready to charge into the wall's breach. Luckily they were in arrow range and were almost wiped out with one hail—at least they would not be too much of a threat. Murdoch's soldiers stationed themselves close enough to the coming breach to fill it quickly, but not so close as to get buried by the falling rock.

For what felt like an eternity, there was no sound save for that of catapults loosing their missiles at the wall. Three enormous boulders struck in succession, none of them giving the impression that any progress was being made. Then the fourth boulder was sent forth, crashing into the wall with a noise like stone thunder. At first nothing happened. Then there was a deep rumbling, and with a deafening roar the weak part of the wall trembled and crashed down to earth, sending up huge clouds of dust into the chill air.

And then they came. They surged toward the gaping hole like an evil flood, bloodlust and triumph coursing through them and urging them on. There was no form or method to it; it was a mad, chaotic rush. Skaramorian arrows fell like rain among them, slaying many of them but not enough, not nearly enough, to stop or even slow them. A shield-wall was all that now stood between them and ultimate victory.

Murdoch grabbed a hold of a weasel who was dashing to the stairs to help hold off the Oskneyan flood and gave him new orders.

"Spread the word," the wolf lord growled. "Ah want every guard, constable, and any beast who can lift a weapon tae come here and fight. And make it quick." The weasel nodded wordlessly, then was shoved away to carry out his lord's wishes.

Murdoch looked at the impossibly large Oskneyan horde assembled and released a weary sigh. So this was it: this was the end of his realm. Considering the circumstances, he had held out remarkably well, but that was little consolation to him now. With Byrnach in his grip, Sigurd Blood-Tooth would have an almost impregnable staging point from which to launch his campaigns. This wasn't just the end of Byrnach, this was the end of Skaramor. This was the end of the Northlands.

The Lord of Byrnach made a promise to himself that he would kill at least a hundred of the enemy before he left this world, then drew his sword and walked down to the fighting.

xxxx

"So how'd your friends take it when they found out we're all going to die?" Lennox asked Tristan.

"Are you daft?" the squirrel replied. "I didn't tell them we were going to die; I just said that I had been called up for some reason. If I told them the truth they'd die of fright!"

"Well that might actually be preferable to what's really going to happen," the old shrew mused. He looked up at the gate, which was shaking violently with every blow from the ram. "Shouldn't we have some regulars up here?"

"Right with yer, mate," said a gruff voice from behind the scout. Jalryk strolled up beside the pair and looked at the massive gate with a calculating expression. With him were two hundred shield-beasts and fifty pikes. "If'n I 'ad ter guess, I'd say that thing'll bust in about four more hits."

"Five," Tristan corrected. "I've seen that kind of wood before; it's surprisingly strong."

"Nah," Lennox said. "That's an old gate. More like three." Another boom rang through the air as the ram struck again.

"Tell yer wot," Jalryk suggested. "The beast wot gets it right goes in first. Sound good?"

A second blow struck.

"Sure, why not?" the others said.

A third time the ram hit the gate, and the gate held firm.

"Damn," Lennox remarked placidly. Jalryk grinned with anticipation, but was crestfallen when the gate withstood a fourth strike.

"All right, it's all you mate," the fox said to Tristan. "Save some for the rest of us."

"Of course." The squirrel hefted his spear and drew the sword of Martin the Warrior. "You know, I've got a funny feeling," he mused. "Like we're going to make it through this. I mean, if I was supposed to die this young, shouldn't it have been down in Mossflower or up on the ridge?" This time it sounded like the Oskneyans were pulling the ram back further than usual, so that they could put more force into the blow.

"Don't be absurd," Lennox chastised. "Just get in there and do your job. 'Ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to do and die.' That's an old saying, I think, but I can't remember where it's from."

"It'll come to you," Tristan assured him. A huge wooden spike crashed through the gate, sending splinters and shards of wood flying. Tristan quickly and nimbly leapt on top of it, meeting a tan rat who wanted to be the first through the gate. He didn't even have time to lift his spear before the squirrel struck his head from his shoulders.

The other scouts and Oskneyans launched themselves into the fray, eager for one last moment of glory before death. Tristan fought harder than he ever had, totally unaware of how many beasts he killed. He hacked, slashed, thrust and kicked as more of the enemy poured forth into the broken gate. He was vaguely aware of a pain in his leg that was likely a wound. All around him warriors fought and fell until the enemy started to disappear.

The fog of battle lifted from Tristan's mind and allowed him to see that the Oskneyans were pulling back from the gate. Cheers rose around him as the Skaramorians celebrated their brief victory. They knew not why their enemies were leaving, but they did not care. Tristan joined in their jubilant cries until he saw a missile from a catapult flying towards him.

He shut his eyes and prepared for death, but death never came. There was a sound of thunder and a shock that almost knocked him off his footpaws, but when he opened his eyes he was alive. He was bleeding from the leg, side, and cheek from the fighting just moments earlier and the wound he suffered at the ridge had reopened, but he was otherwise fine. The cheering, silenced by the boulder's unexpected arrival, began again in earnest.

Then, off in the distance, another sound came. It sounded like a very faint buzz at first, but it grew louder. Cheers gave way to murmurs of confusion as the Oskneyans in the valley started forming battle ranks at the northern end of the valley. A victorious smile crossed Tristan's lips; he knew what was going on.

"It's the king."

xxxx

The faint buzz on the air became a great roar of war cries and pawsteps. Skaramorian banners snapped in the wind as the army the defenders of Byrnach had been waiting for stormed the snow-blanketed fields of the valley. King Bannock had arrived.

The battle that followed was fierce. King Bannock's relief force was outnumbered by about four thousand, but the narrow confines of the valley kept that from making any difference. Slowly but surely, the Oskneyan horde was driven back. The bloodshed continued through the rest of the day, until the invaders were backed up on the road leading to Dun Gloir. The sun set, the fighting ceased, and Byrnach was saved.

Word spread through the town like wildfire. Beasts were milling about and shouting in the streets, celebrating their king's timely arrival and how they had been saved from slavery and death. Soldiers from the relieving army were welcomed with such warmth that some were not found again until morning, so zealously had they joined in the celebrations.

It took Shilly and Yooch a long time to find Tristan again. When they did they threw themselves on him and embraced him so tightly that he couldn't breathe for a moment. Together again, they joined Tristan's comrades in the celebrations that had overtaken the town.

If the citizens of Byrnach were loud before, they were deafening when King Bannock himself came through the broken gate. The king was a very old wolf and might have stayed home and sent his son to command the rescue effort, but he had personal reasons for coming—the lady Caitriona was his daughter. He had brought with him several Skaramorian lords as well as Malcolm, the exiled prince of the ill-fated Buckland. As soon as Bannock and his commanders arrived, they and Murdoch went to discuss the future of the battle—they would not relax until the enemy was completely defeated.

xxxx

Morning came. Tristan wished it wouldn't; he wanted this perfect night to go on forever. But that was a foolish wish and part of him knew it. Sooner or later the Oskneyans would have to be driven back, and Tristan would have to help. He fully expected for his unit—what was left of it—to be ordered to skirmish the enemy and find their weakest point. It was a little surprising when he received a summons to the lords' council.

He was led by a talkative hare who insisted that he had slain four of the enemy without suffering a wound. He was probably an archer in that case, but Tristan held his tongue until they reached the chamber where the king was meeting with the other commanders.

"My king and lords," the hare announced when he escorted Tristan into the room, "I present to you Tristan…er, wot's your last name, chap? Never mind. I present to you Tristan, wot wot!"

"Thank you," King Bannock replied. "You may leave us now." The hare bowed and left, closing the door behind him. The old king turned his attention to the young soldier. His eyes still looked youthful, but his fur was almost white with age. He was dressed in a great blue robe, with a gold circlet adorning his head. Despite his simple clothing, he inspired reverence and respect from all around him.

"So you are Tristan," he said to the squirrel. Taken aback by the situation, Tristan only now remembered to kneel before his king. If any of the lords were offended by this lapse in manners, they gave no indication.

"I have heard much about you," the king continued. "Lord Murdoch tells me that you are the beast who found the sword of Martin the Warrior. Is that it?" he asked, pointing to the blade at Tristan's waist.

The squirrel cleared his throat. "Yes," he answered. "Forgive me for not removing it first; I did not expect to be summoned."

"There is nothing to forgive," the king assured. "Come, let me see it." Nervously, Tristan slid the legendary blade from its scabbard and presented it pommel-first to the king. Bannock took it gently and lifted it up to study it better. He admired it, turning it around in his paw and studying it from all angles.

"A fine weapon," he declared. "Magnificent. I would expect nothing less from a blade so renowned. I understand you went through great hardship and loss to obtain this, Tristan. Have no fear; you shall be greatly rewarded. With this sword we can carry the respect we need to forge a great alliance of the Northland kingdoms against the Oskneyans.

"Now, as for the sword itself, it will have to be carried by a leader—symbolism is important in this case, after all. The seasons have been kind to me, but not so kind as to allow me into battle. Martin's sword shall be wielded by my son the prince."

There were murmurs of agreement with this decision among the lords. It was entirely sensible to them, but Tristan was shocked. Abbess Fenna had told him that he was destined to wield the sword, hadn't she? He wanted to tell as much to the king but did not think he would be believed. After all, he was a common soldier and anybeast would expect him to lie in order to hold on to such a marvelous weapon.

Murdoch was facing a crisis of conscience. He still remembered that dream from all those weeks ago, when he was visited by the legendary warrior himself. Martin had specifically told the wolf lord not to let anybeast but Tristan wield his sword. Murdoch ground his teeth. He was about to do something that never before had even crossed his mind: he was going to go against his king.

"Your Majesty," he said. "Forgive mah interruption, but…ah think Tristan should be allowed tae keep the sword." The prince shot him a dark look, while the other lords and Malcolm simply looked at him in surprise.

"And why do you think that?" King Bannock inquired mildly.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The king would not reverse his decision because one of his lords, even one as trusted as Murdoch, had a strange dream. Murdoch needed a more plausible excuse. _Think, damn it_.

"Murdoch?"

The lord of Byrnach was quiet a heartbeat longer, then answered: "Martin was a mouse after all, Your Majesty. And wolves are so larger than mice that a sword forged for one would not fi' in the other's paw. Nobeast here doots yaer son's skill in battle, but a mouse's sword would simply do him no good. Tristan did find the sword, after all, and a squirrel's paw would fit the handle better."

King Bannock said nothing at first, scrutinizing Murdoch and his words. Then the prince stood and said, "Let me see the sword, Father."

Tristan's heart skipped numerous beats as the prince took hold of the sword and moved it through the air, watching it with an appraising look.

"Lord Murdoch is right," he said after a while. "It is a wonderful blade, but I can't imagine fighting with it. Let the squirrel wield it; consider it his reward."

Silently, Tristan released a breath he did not realize he had been holding. The prince casually handed the weapon back to Tristan, who placed it back in its scabbard with shivering paws.

"Now that this matter is settled," the king declared, "it is time we returned to the matter of the Oskneyans. Now, we know that—oh, what is it now?"

There was somebeast outside shouting for the king, claiming that he had urgent news. It had something to do with Sigurd Blood-Tooth, so the crier said, and he suddenly appeared in the doorway breathing heavily.

"Your Majesty!" he gasped. He was a shrew, in the service of Prince Malcom judging from the colors he wore. "Your Majesty, Sigurd Blood-Tooth himself has appeared in the valley. He has issued a challenge!"

Murdoch immediately stood up and turned to the king. "Sire," he pleaded, "ah've been waiting for a chance lahk this for seasons. Let me take it!"

"You will not!" Prince Malcolm erupted. "The blighter's father made my father an exile! If anyone's getting' a whack at 'im, it's me!"

"No, my lords," the shrew interrupted. "Blood-Tooth was very specific. He wants to fight Tristan."


	25. The Last Full Measure

"Starsword," they called it. "Oksneybane," they called it. The weapon went by many names in the Oskneyan camp, but one thing was universal: the sword would be the ruin of the kingdom. The red squirrel called Tristan had slain Hrothgar Broad-Paw and Svein Truth-Speaker and held off hundreds of warriors at the citadel's gate. His blade—clearly magical—could cut through the strongest shields and armor like they were cheese. To the superstitious minds of the Oskneyan warriors, to continue this battle was folly.

But Sigurd would have none of it. Too long had he been without the respect of his lords, who were convinced that he was a murderer and a usurper of the throne. Too long had Murdoch ruined his designs. He needed a victory, a great one that would bring him the respect he craved. With the Skaramorian king arrived with a relieving army, that victory seemed ever more remote. This called for the plan of last resort.

In a way, the red squirrel's legend could help Sigurd. If the king were to kill this upstart in a duel, it would mean that not only was this Tristan not invincible, but Sigurd would have the right to any possessions his opponent had with him—including the sword. Then the reckoning would come. The Skaramorians were still outnumbered; this battle could still be won. And with that gleaming sword in his grasp, Sigurd would be unstoppable. His warriors and lords would follow him anywhere, do anything he commanded.

And so here he was, standing out in the middle of a field of snow, clad in his finest war gear and armed with a newly sharpened hand-and-a-half sword. He stood motionless out there, ignoring the cold wind and the nervous stares from all around him. He neither moved an inch nor spoke a word.

He waited.

xxxx

It was like a black cloud of doom had settled over Byrnach. Word of the Oskneyan king's challenge had spread through the town like wildfire. Everybeast was excited, but it was an odd kind of excitement—a nervous, quiet excitement. For Shilly and Yooch, the news was most dire. They were pacing about in Murdoch's hall, silently wondering what would happen next.

"Oi'm sure Trizdan will win," Yooch said matter-of-factly. A little _too_ matter-of-factly to reassure his friend.

"He's been through plenty of fights before," Shilly reasoned. "He knows what he's doing. In all those stories we heard, the hero always won the duel in the end, right?"

"Ee stories b'ain't loik ee real wurld," Yooch warned her.

"You're the beast who just said Tristan would win!" the squirrelmaid snapped. She slumped into a chair much too large for her. "I just wish…I wish this were over."

The doors were flung open, and Murdoch came striding purposefully into the hall.

"Ah take it ye heard aboot Blood-Tooth's challenge," he guessed, looking at their anxious faces.

"Lord Murdoch, you could defeat him, couldn't you?" Shilly pleaded.

"Ah'd spread the bastard's guts o'er the valley afore he knew what was happenin'," the wolf lord informed them. He studied a group of spears that were mounted on the wall and took one that he approved of in some way. "But ah cannae take yaer friend's challenge. Blood-Tooth mentioned him by name. Ah dunnae know why, but he specifically wants tae fight Tristan. It's a matter of honor; if Tristan doesn't fight noo he'll look lahk a coward and that would only hurt us and help the enemy." He turned on his heel and strode back out of the room.

"Dunnae worry aboot yaer friend," he said to the Redwallers over his shoulder. "After all he's been through, ah think it'll take more than just one Oskneyan tae kill him."

xxxx

Tristan was alone in the scouts' barracks, preparing for his duel. Lennox had seen to it that nobeast would disturb him, and Tristan was grateful for that. The solitude gave him time to think.

Sigurd was almost certainly smaller than Hrothgar Broad-Paw; it was well-known that the Oskneyan king was of only average stature. So he was less likely to simply charge in and swing wildly like the late ferret had. He was also more experienced than Tristan and would have chain mail and a large, yet probably lightweight, shield. His helmet would likely be open-faced, too, to it wouldn't be easy to simply jump out of his field of vision. This would not be easy.

A knock on the door brought the squirrel out of his meditations. He was relieved, for some reason, when Lord Murdoch came through the door.

"Ah found ye this," the wolf said, hefting a spear. "It's got a metal core all the way through the shaft. Heavier than what yaer used to, but it'll stop a sword."

"Thank you, my lord," Tristan replied. He took the spear and twirled it idly. It was heavier, but not by much. He would have to spend only a few minutes getting used to its feel.

"Ah dunnae think," Murdoch said gravely, "that ah need tae tell ye what's at stake here. If you kill Sigurd, you could turn the tide for us."

"I know, my lord. I'll do my best."

The wolf shook his head. "If ye just go oot there tae do yaer best, ye won't have anything tae motivate ye. Ye've got tae _win_, soldier. An' _then_ ye'll do yaer best."

Tristan nodded mutely. "My lord," he added, "I have but one request to ask of you. Please do not let Shilly or Yooch watch the fight. If I lose, I don't want them to see the things the enemy will do to me."

"Done," Murdoch answered. "Now, are ye ready tae do this?"

"Just another moment," the squirrel replied. Murdoch nodded and left the soldier to his preparations.

Tristan did not know how long he spent practicing. He did know that sooner or later he would have to go out and fight the king of Oskney. When he felt comfortable with his new metal-core spear, he practiced a little while longer, then placed Martin's sword in its scabbard and went out the barracks' door. All eyes were on him as he made his way to the massive, broken gate.

"_Bua go Skaramor!_" somebeast shouted. At once the battle cry was taken up by the rest of the soldiers that had gathered to watch their champion go to his duel. Tristan was stoic as the crowd yelled their battle cries, brandished their weapons and even began chanting his name. He paid them no heed, staring straight ahead and marching on to his destiny.

Ahead of him the hole in the gate caused by the enemy's battering ram was revealed as the crowd of soldiers parted to let him pass. The world suddenly became much colder as he passed through it and the blood-soaked battlefield of the other day came into bleak view. Bodies were everywhere. The only beast standing was the lone figure in the very center of the carnage. Tristan knew immediately who it was.

Sigurd Bood-Tooth looked every inch the warrior king. A crimson tunic covered his chain mail armor, and a great black cape stirred about his shoulders in the slight breeze. His head was protected by a solid iron helm encircled by a gold band at its base. But what struck Tristan most was that the Oskneyan king was not a ferret or a tan rat. He was a gray squirrel.

Just like Olaf Iron-Rod.

Once again that lust for revenge swelled up in the squirrel soldier. His brother's murderer may have been taken by a hail of arrows, but the murderer's king was right here, right now, ripe for the slaying. It was perfect; all too perfect.

Sigurd looked at his adversary impassively. "Shall we waste our time with small talk," he inquired in his own language, "or may we go straight to the part where I kill you?"

Tristan said nothing, but slid the sword of Martin the Warrior out of its scabbard and struck a fighting stance. "Excellent," the Oskneyan king remarked. He never expected that his opponent would strike so hard or fast.

The red squirrel's fury was unleashed in a series of wild attacks. Surprised by the sudden onslaught, Sigurd was taken aback and immediately thrown onto the defensive. Tristan fought seemingly without tactics or thought; he simply struck as hard and fast as he could without searching for a hole in his enemy's defense.

Sigurd blocked and parried far longer than he would have liked, until an opening presented itself and he thrust with his sword. The blade did not find its intended killing mark, but caught Tristan on the side of his chest and drew blood.

Watching from the wall top, Murdoch shook his head in frustration. "Idiot," he hissed. "Watch his eyes, not his sword!"

"Is he winning?" The wolf lord looked behind him and saw Shilly and Yooch scurrying up the stairs with anxious expressions.

"What are ye doin' here?" he demanded.

"Hurr, we cumm to watch Trizdan foight," the mole explained. "We carn't just sit araond, not knowin' wut be'm goin' on."

"Well get oot o' here," Murdoch snapped. "Tristan asked me no' tae let ye watch."

"Why?"

"Do ye have any ahdea what the Oskneyans do when one of our fighters loses a challenge?"

The youngsters replied that they did not, and Murdoch enlightened them. They almost became sick.

Meanwhile, down in the valley, Sigurd was pressing the advantage he had just gained. Already bleeding, Tristan was likely to instinctively protect his wounded side. That gave the king a pretty good idea of what the red squirrel's defense would look like, and where he would be most vulnerable. Forcing him back step by step, Sigurd was able to knock Tristan off balance and break a hole in his guard.

The king brought his sword in an overhead arc to strike the killing blow, only to have it blocked by his enemy's spear. Surprisingly the weapon did not break. So the red squirrel had a metal-cored spear. That would make things more difficult.

Pushing hard, Tristan knocked away his enemy's sword and thrust with his own. Striking only a shield, he swung his spear in a horizontal arc that caught the king on the side of his head and knocking him off balance. Sigurd instinctively rolled and brought up his shield to stop the next sword-thrust. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the tip of the blade poking through his shield.

His quick reflexes were not enough to keep Sigurd from falling into the snow. He rolled to the side, dodging a spear thrust, and got to his footpaws without taking his eyes off his adversary. With a few paces' distance between them, Sigurd expected that Tristan would pause and consider his next move. He was wrong; the red squirrel lunged and swung madly at his enemy, once again fighting without thought or tactics. He was driven by rage—pure, unbridled rage. And that would give Sigurd the victory in this battle.

Once again the Oskneyan king was on the defensive, but he nonetheless held the upper paw. Now realizing that his opponent was not attacking with any real technique, Sigurd simply took each blow as it came, watching the red squirrel's eyes to see where the next strike would go. It was a simple matter to wait for an opening, dip his sword low, deflect the ensuing spear thrust with his shield and rake his blade across Tristan's unprotected chest.

Tristan stumbled backward, shocked and hurt on more than a physical level. He was so close to his revenge now; how could it end like this? Lennox would probably tell him that revenge didn't matter, because he was a soldier. Tristan didn't care. The whole reason he became a soldier in the first place was so that he could have this one chance at justice.

He swung powerfully at the Oskneyan king's head, but to no avail. Sigurd simply took a quick step backward, letting the blade cut only air. This was how it had always been for Tristan: whenever he came close to reaching his goal, it slipped away from him. He cut and thrust like a madbeast, but his enemy simply sidestepped each attack, not even bothering to use his shield. Sigurd was quite content to let the red squirrel swing futilely at empty space, never finding what he was looking for.

This wasn't working; this wild, aimless attack. Tristan should have stopped before he exhausted himself, but the image of his brother being beaten to death in the kitchens drove him on. It always had. No matter how great the odds, Tristan had always kept fighting so that he could avenge his little brother. But it had cost him, and not only him. That shrew in his company had lost his own brother because of Tristan's selfish need for justice.

Was it even really justice? Olaf Iron-Rod was dead. So were the guards who had helped him in his murder. Maybe the fates had decided to punish the slave lord with arrows instead of Tristan. And why shouldn't they? The squirrel had sworn a vow to be a soldier, and part of being a soldier meant putting your duty to lord and land before your own needs.

It was over and done with, and nothing Tristan could do, say, or wish for could change that. So he made the hardest decision of his life. He let it go.

Sigurd saw a pause in the red squirrel's attack and lunged, his sword diving for Tristan's neck. The blow was parried easily by the metal-cored spear and responded to by a cut from that shining sword. The Oskneyan king raised his shield high to block it and immediately realized how stupid that was. The spear, hidden from view by the shield, easily drove itself into Sigurd's leg.

For Tristan, there was no rage now, no hate or need for revenge. There was only the fight, and how it could be won. It was just like that quarterstaff tournament back at Redwall. Tristan used the same strategy he used against Chulain, weakening his enemy's leg and forcing him back to put his weight on it. Sigurd grunted in pain and stumbled, barely managing to keep his balance. Quick as lightning Tristan swung his heavy spear around his head and brought it into a horizontal arc that crashed into the Oskneyan king's sword arm.

Desperately Sigurd flailed his arms in an effort to keep him on his footpaws. He stayed upright, but for a brief moment his shield and sword were off to the sides, exposing his torso. That brief moment was all Tristan needed, and the sword of Martin the Warrior found its mark at last.

The king of Oskney stood still, in a state of shock, his eyes locked on to the sword that had buried its tip in his chest. With a jerk Tristan pulled it free, letting the gray squirrel fall helplessly to his knees. Martin's blade struck one last time, and Sigurd Blood-Tooth, King of Oskney, was dead.

Tristan turned his gaze to the shocked horde of Oskneyans who had gathered to watch the duel. For a moment he considered saying something, but decided against it and turned and walked silently back to the citadel, leaving the headless body of his enemy in the snow.


	26. A Soldier to the Last

The moment somebeast tried to take control of the situation, everything fell apart. Hagar Broken-Sword struck his most arrogant pose and decided that he would lead the charge against the Skaramorian army. The other lords, of course, responded by shouting down the tan rat and demanding to know why he should lead the attack.

Everywhere around him in the lords' tent, Edvard Arrow-Master saw his kingdom coming apart. The meeting of the Oskneyan lords that was supposed to fix the problems they know faced had disintegrated into a shouting match. Nobeast even took sides; it was every lord for himself. Ragnar Dead-Eye, as Edvard had predicted, took much of the blame for the disastrous events of the past few days.

"You and that fool Svein were supposed to cut off their lines of communication!" Ulf Warhammer barked accusingly. "If you hadn't been so preoccupied with filling your pockets—"

"If you had followed your orders and joined us," the giant ferret shot back, "we might have been able to do just that." He turned his diseased eye on the tan rat, eliciting a tremble and a fearful look. Nobeast had ever seen a ferret as large or intimidating as Ragnar Dead-Eye. "But I guess you were too afraid. You've always been too afraid to attack without another several thousand with you."

Hagar Broken-Sword slapped his paw on the table to get Ragnar's attention. "I'll not stand by and let you insult my cousin, you half-blind oaf!"

"And I'll not stand by and let you insult _me_," Ragnar growled.

"We mustn't lose sight of who's really to blame," declared Eyvind Sveinsson. "If anybeast is at fault for this, it's that dead fool Sigurd."

"You will not speak of your king like that!" another lord screamed.

"The lad has a point," Edvard stated. "This whole siege was Sigurd's idea from the start. Before we set out, I told him that I saw a lot of possible holes in the plan, and I must say I'm not surprised that any of this turned out the way it did."

"And I suppose _you_ could do better?" a ferret snapped. "Any idiot could see that Bannock might come with a relief force, but I defy any of you to tell me you knew that this Tristar or whatever his name is would play such a part."

"That red squirrel is invincible," said a gray squirrel in a frightened tone.

"Sigurd spilled his blood, idiot," Ragnar growled. "Strong he may be, but invincible he is not."

"Then why don't _you_ fight him?" Ulf suggested smugly.

"I just might do that," the giant ferret replied. "And when he's dead I'm coming back for you."

Once again, chaos erupted in the meeting tent. For almost an hour, accusations were hurled, voices were drowned out by one another, and Edvard realized that the tides of war were starting to turn against Oskney. He took charge of the situation as best he could.

"My fellow lords! Peace!" he shouted. Nobeast paid him any mind. He repeated the call until the tent was quiet, and all eyes were on him. "My fellow lords," he said, "we may not agree on who is to blame for these recent events, and shouting at each other like this will not change that. So far it seems to me that we have agreed on only one thing: we are defeated.

"As divided as we are we cannot hope to put up enough of a fight to defeat Bannock, and for all we know another relief force is on its way. Therefore, I believe it is our best course of action to withdraw to a more favorable position. Our northern front is exposed, after all, and we must fortify it before the enemy takes advantage of this. Can we all agree?" There was a lengthy silence.

"Edvard is right," Ragnar declared. The other lords murmured their agreement.

So Ragnar carried more respect that Edvard had previously thought. If Edvard wanted to become king—and he did—the giant ferret would eventually have to die. But that was a story for a later date.

And so, broken, demoralized, and leaderless, the Oskneyan horde broke camp and left Byrnach.

xxxx

After all that had happened in the last few days, Tristan was in fairly bad shape—almost as bad as when he showed up at Redwall's gate. Shilly fussed over him constantly, making sure he wasn't hiding any wounds from her—although Tristan wasn't quite sure why the squirrelmaid would think he would do such a thing.

For the time being, the scouts' barracks was serving as the infirmary where the squirrel soldier was recovering from his duel. Soldiers not stationed on the wall were gathered outside and would have been milling about inside as well had Shilly not shooed them out earlier.

"Lie still," she insisted, pushing Tristan back onto the cot he was lying on. "If you exert yourself it'll only take longer to recover."

"I'm _fine_, Shilly," he groaned.

"He almost killed you!" she snapped. She grabbed a strip of cloth to prepare another dressing. "Two wounds to the chest and who knows how many more reopened elsewhere on your body. One hour of rest does not make you fine."

"You know, the healers we have here could have helped me just as well."

"Hah. Yooch told me how they got that arrow out of his leg—I wouldn't wish their treatment on that Olaf creature."

"Oi'd harf to h'agree," Yooch jumped in. "That wurr ee most paynful moment of moi loif. You'm better off wiff Shilly, trust oi."

There was a loud thumping on the door. "Not going ter bother yer patient," a muffled voice assured. "Just came ter give some good news."

Shilly opened the door and looked disdainfully at Jalryk, who was standing there with a grin on his face. The fox looked past her, towards Tristan.

"Guess what, mate?" he asked rhetorically. "The Oskneyans 'ave 'ad it. They're leavin' right now."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh aye. Runnin' wid their tails between their legs, they are! Har, they're even leavin' some o' the loot they got!"

"Woi wudd they leave?" Yooch wondered.

"Well, it makes perfect sense," Tristan remarked. "Their king is dead, and for all they know we have more reinforcements on the way. They'd be fools not to leave."

"So we won?" Shilly asked.

"Aye, we won," Tristan replied. "To be honest I was a little worried for a moment there."

"A little?" Jalryk shook his head and laughed. "We were outnumbered seven ter one with 'arf the wall falling down and you were a _little_ worried?"

Shilly turned to Tristan very slowly. "Half the wall…? I thought you said everything was fine!"

"I didn't want to scare the daylights out of you!"

"But you had no problem letting me find out like _this_?"

"Oi carn see Trizdan's point," Yooch said. "Hurr, oi'd doi o' froight iffen oi knew wot woz really 'app'nin'! Ennywayz, naow that ee path is clear oi spec we'll leave furr 'ome soon."

"Leave…?" Shilly said the word as though it were from another language.

"Well we carn't let h'Abbess Fenna wurry 'erself to death."

"Yooch is right," Tristan told the squirrelmaid. It was clear he wasn't happy with the situation. "The Abbess wanted you to turn back as soon as you reached Skaramor. I've completed my mission. Martin's sword is in our grasp, and with it we just might be able to forge an alliance to save the Northlands. And you've stayed here far longer than you should. It's time for you to go home."

The room was silent as the meaning of it all sank into the three companions who had been through so much together. They had grown so close, shared so many joys and sorrows, only to be parted now. A tear slowly rolled down Shilly's cheek.

"I'll, er, tell 'Is Lordship about yer circumstances," Jalryk offered awkwardly. "I'm sure he'll send a few beasts ter take yer back 'ome." He shuffled out and closed the door behind him, leaving the three friends to their final moments together.

xxxx

A hundred and ten Noonvalers had left to help Murdoch fend off the Oskneyan invasion, and sixty-two had lived to see their home again. Donnal was among them, but an enemy spear had found the side of his face. He would forever bear the mark of his part in the battle, and he was at once proud and ashamed of that. At least he was alive.

King Bannock himself had graced Shilly and Yooch with a detachment of two dozen shields to escort them back to Redwall Abbey. The morning after the Oskneyans retreated, the Noonvale Militia, the Redwallers, and their escort went south. They traveled together until they reached Noonvale, where the Redwallers and escort stayed as guests for a day.

The reunions between the militiabeasts and their families were hard to watch. Like most of the other fathers, Padraig Voh said nothing to his son, but pulled him into a tearful, relieved embrace. There was so much emotion with so few words that Yooch burst into tears and had to be held for a moment. But even harder to watch than the reunions were the reactions of the families who could not find their sons and brothers among those who had returned. With them the militiabeasts had brought sleds carrying large bags. Nobeast needed to be told what—or more accurately, who—was in them.

When the opportunity presented itself, one of the Skaramorians took Padraig Voh aside and quietly warned him that his son and the others had just been through the greatest battle the Northlands had ever seen. They might never be the same again, and the creatures of Noonvale should expect their returning sons to act very differently from before.

The next day, with wishes of a safe journey from the Noonvalers, Shilly and Yooch and their escort set off for Redwall. The youngsters recognized some of the places they had been on their way north, making it easier for the troop to find their way. They avoided the copse of trees where the white-furred ferrets had ambushed them (although the soldiersinsisted that they could handle whatever was in those trees), found a place to cross the stream, and spent an entire day looking for the road that would take them to the abbey.

As they walked south down the road, anticipation filled the hearts of the two Redwallers. It felt like butterflies were fluttering around in their stomachs for days, and when the red sandstone walls came into view they almost left their escort behind as they ran gleefully to their home. The reception was not quite what they had anticipated.

"Eeeeeeeek! Mother Abbess! There's a troop of armed vermin coming this way!" somebeast screamed.

"Zizter Tara," Yooch groaned, shaking his velvety head. "She'm always froightened o' summat."

"Sister Tara," Shilly called to the mouse standing fearfully on the wall top, "calm down. It's just us."

"Aaaah! And they've got Shilly and Yooch prisoner!"

"Oi don't think she'll calm down any toime soon," Yooch observed.

The youngsters were relieved when the aging Abbess Fenna appeared on the wall. "Shilly? Yooch? Is that you?" the asked.

"O' course et be'm us'ns," Yooch replied. "These beasts b'aint 'ostile, they'm our h'escort!"

"Your friend speaks the truth," a hedgehog in the troop said. "His Majesty King Bannock ordered us to make sure they got home safely. We mean no harm."

"Oh, I see. Oh, thank you! We've been worried about those three ever since they left! Hold on a moment…could somebeast open the gate?"

Cheers rose into the air when Shilly and Yooch stepped through the abbey gate. Abbeybeasts took turns hugging them and telling them how much they were missed and how worried everybeast was that something terrible had happened to them. When they were asked where Brother Chulain was, the looks on the youngsters' faces were all the answer that was needed.

Polin, the old mouse Shilly had met in the Oskneyan slave camp was there, too. He looked to be in his last days, but he assured Shilly that he was fine. He was happy to live out what little remained of his life in Redwall, he said. He also helped to reassure the Abbey dwellers that the soldiers, even the vermin, meant no harm.

That night Cavern Hole was filled to capacity with beasts who wanted to hear the story of Shilly's and Yooch's adventures in the north. This time there was no embellishment or exaggeration: the youngsters related the events of their journey exactly as it had happened, as best as they could remember. The incident with the snow ferrets had everybeast on the edge of their seats, and when they told of how Chulain had died trying to protect Shilly from the Oskneyans there was not a dry eye in the room.

Shilly's description of her experience at the slave camp drew gasps and horrified whispers. Then Yooch took up the tale, relating how he and Tristan hurried for days without food or rest in a desperate search for Lord Murdoch. Nobeast believed the mole when he said that the wolf lord was even bigger than a badger. And then there was the story of the rescue, and how Yooch was wounded in the leg.

"Ee healin' methods oop thurr be'm defferent frum wot we'm use," he told them. "Ee healer 'ad somebeast 'old oi daown whoile 'e yanked ee arrer aout o' moi leg, poured whesky o'er ee wound, an' tukk a hot poker and carteroized et." He noticed that several members of his audience fainted dead away at the discription. He didn't blame them.

Then the story went on to Byrnach. The youngsters almost could not find the words to describe the massive scale of the place, the great wall and gate, the mountains so high they blocked the sun, and how many mountains there were! They had little to tell of the battle, having witnessed only the duel that ended it. But they did see the size of the armies, and like the other Redwallers, they could only imagine what the battle must have been like.

"Well we're glad you made it back safe and sound," Fenna said when the story was over. "Brother Polin told us he had met you and that you were well, but anything could have happened between the time he found you and you arrived home."

"Hurr, believe oi, Muvver h'Abbess," Yooch said earnestly. "You'm b'ain't as glad as us'ns!"

xxxx

The soldiers stayed for only the night. When the sun rose, so did they, and they marched north before noon. There was a war to fight, after all, and winter would start to thaw in a matter of days. Abbess Fenna was more than happy to see that they had enough provisions to last the trip, and she and a few others saw them off from the wall.

Shilly was with them, and she kept looking northward long after the soldiers had disappeared into the distance and everybeast else went inside to escape the cold. Shilly didn't mind the chill; she had spent so long in it she didn't notice it anymore. She spent the rest of the morning up on the wall top, until she heard pawsteps behind her and saw Polin walking stiffly up the steps.

"Deep in thought?" he inquired.

"I suppose," the squirrelmaid answered. "I was just thinking about Tristan."

The old mouse leaned on the battlements beside her. "He'll be fine," he stated. "Now that their king is dead, I doubt the Oskneyans will be able to put up a united front. They're scheming creatures, they are, always looking to outdo and undermine each other. And your friend will soon be visiting the courts of various kings and lords, building an alliance. Even if only one or two countries join Skaramor, I think it will be enough to drive the enemy back."

"I know. I'm not worried about his safety; it's just that I…well…"

"Ah, I see," Polin said knowingly. "Well, there is still a chance he'll come down here. If he feels the same way, that is."

"He does," Shilly said with a soft smile. "I know he does. And I know he'll come back, too. To return the sword, if nothing else."

"Yes, the sword. That may not be in the near future. Several seasons, at least."

"That's all right, I suppose," Shilly said. "I've learned a lot over the past weeks. I can wait."

And so she did.

xxxx

_Four seasons later._

Summer had reached its warmest point, and Fenna was somewhat ill. The last thing she needed was a band of robbers at the gate demanding surrender. This really wouldn't have been a problem had it not been for the fact that they had ladders and arrows—they were a threat, and a grave one at that.

"Now I'm not a patient beast," snarled the fox who was leading the vermin. "Ye've got one chance ter save all yer lives, an' that's if'n ye open this gate right now! If'n ye don't, we'll come over those walls and slay every one o' yer!"

Fenna looked down at the marauders from her spot on the wall. There were about forty of them, all with weapons. They could make good on their threat; that much was obvious.

"How do we know," the abbess inquired, "that you won't kill us if we open the gate, hmm?"

"Don't give in ter these blighters, marm," Skipper of Otters told her. "My lads an' I can handle 'em if'n we need to."

"I'm trying to avoid bloodshed, Skipper," she murmured in response.

"I'm givin' ye till the count o' three!" the fox warned, brandishing his sword.

"You might want to put that away," a voice called from up the road. "Might put somebeast's eye out with that."

All eyes turned north to see a lone figure strolling up to the abbey. It was a lone squirrel, dressed in a kilt and a white shirt. He wore a sword at his waist, and he held a spear in his paw. For a long moment, the only sound was that of birds singing in the warm day.

"What've we got 'ere?" the fox asked in a mocking tone. "One liddle squirrel thinks 'e can fight us all off?"

"He doesn't _think_ he can fight you all off," the stranger replied. "He _knows_ all of you will die today unless you drop your weapons and leave now."

Peals of raucous laughter erupted from the vermin. "You got an army ter help yer wid that, mate?" a rat sneered.

"Well, now that you mention it…" The squirrel whistled and signaled to the surrounding trees. At once threescore armed beasts emerged from the forest and from the ditch by the road, all wearing light gray tunics. The maneuver was carefully arranged; as soon as the warriors appeared the vermin were surrounded.

"Now, you have two options," the squirrel explained casually. "You can do whatever I say or die where you stand. How say you?" It was not a hard decision to make. The vermin dropped their weapons and were sent off to the south, told that if they ever showed their faces in Mossflower again they were all deadbeasts.

Pleased with the way the situation had resolved, the squirrel walked up to the abbey gate and looked up at the wall. "Mother Abbess," he greeted. "It's been a while."

"Who are…?" Fenna looked at the squirrel a little more closely. "Tristan?"

"Aye." He grinned. "I have something that belongs to you. I came to give it back. And from the looks of things I'd say I chose a good time to do it, too."

Tristan and his company of soldiers were given a warm welcome. The gate was opened, paws were shook, thanks were handed out, and when Shilly heard about what was going on she was out of the infirmary like a shot. She was shoving beasts aside and throwing open doors, anything to get to Tristan faster. He spotted her from several yards away, dropped his spear and ran over to meet her. The crowd of well-wishers parted before them. And when they finally reached each other they embraced more tightly and earnestly than they had any other beast in their life.

"I missed you," Tristan whispered.

"I know," Shilly replied.

"Trizdan!" Yooch barreled into the crowd and wrapped his arms around both the squirrels. "Gudd to see e h'again! Hurr, lukks loik ee be'm doin' well."

"Ah yes, I forgot to mention," Tristan said. "His Majesty was so impressed with my services he named me Lord of Grayhill. It's actually more of a moor than a hill; we took it back from the Oskneyans the summer after you left. They called it Grauberg,which in our language wouldtranslate intoGrayhill."

"So you're a lord now," Abbess Fenna said. "So these must be your soldiers?"

"They are indeed. Best guerilla fighters you'll ever see. They're so good at hiding in the mists of Grayhill creatures call them the 'bog wraiths.' We've yet to lose a fight on our own land."

"I'm glad to hear things are starting to look up," the abbess told him. "But may I ask, what brought you back now?"

"Well, after Blood-Tooth's death, the Oskneyans started fighting amongst themselves to see who would be the new king—Blood-Tooth had left no heir, you see, and without one the matter of succession becomes something of a mess.

"Anyway, we were able to convince three of the other Northland kingdoms to fight with us—four, if you count Buckland. We freed almost all of it in just a few weeks. So, finally, after a few seasons of killing each other, the Oskneyan lords decided to crown a beast called Ragnar Dead-Eye. He's cunning, aggressive, and ruthless, but he's no fool. The first thing he did upon becoming king was to negotiate a truce with us and our allies.

"Well, Ragnar's army is in no shape to start fighting again any time soon, so I began to wonder if the time had come to return Martin's sword. A number of beasts tried to talk me out of it, and they almost succeeded, but a couple of weeks ago I had a strange dream. I saw Martin, standing in this very courtyard, and he told me that it was time for his sword to return home. So I took an escort with me, and here I am.

"You see?" he announced to the creatures of the abbey. "I gave my word I would return the sword, and I did."

"And we couldn't be happier," Fenna replied, beaming. "I think this calls for a celebration! Tristan, we would be honored if you and your troops would join us for a feast."

"After my last visit here? You couldn't get me to say no!" the squirrel lord laughed.

xxxx

That next morning Tristan took Shilly up to the wall top where they could talk in private. They were eager have some time alone after so much spent apart, and the other creatures of the abbey were more than happy to oblige them. They exchanged stories on how they had been doing for the last four seasons. Shilly had all but taken over as infirmary keeper of Redwall, since Sister Martha's health had taken a turn for the worse. Polin had passed away in his sleep the previous winter.

As for Tristan, he was reluctant to go into too much detail of his travels to the various Northland kings. At first it was exciting to be in the company of kings, but after the fourth visit or so the novelty began to wear thin. It seemed as though every week the squirrel was required to memorize a new ceremony when he wanted to be on the battlefield. For an entire summer he was away from the fighting, which might actually have been for the best after his ordeal at Byrnach.

He described the lands he had been given for his services, being careful not to make it sound _too_ miserable. It really was a nice place, once a beast had gotten used to it. Fever was a constant threat, and a beast had to learn how to avoid it—which many did.

"There is another reason I wanted to talk with you," Tristan confessed. He became very serious. "Ever since we parted ways I've felt…incomplete. I kept thinking about you every day. At first I must admit that I though it would pass, but it hasn't. I was wondering…hoping, actually…that you might come back with me. To the Northlands."

"Is that your idea of a marriage proposal?" Shilly wanted to know.

"Well…yes, actually. Forgive me; I've never done this before. Now I know I don't have much to offer; my realm is a somewhat harsh place and when the war begins anew—and it will—Grayhill will be on the front lines. I can't exactly give you a life as comfortable as you have here."

"Are you finished?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. When do we leave?"

Tristan stopped in his tracks. "You mean…?"

"I don't care that you offer me a moor as a home and Oskneyans as neighbors," the squirrelmaid explained. "I'm a healer; fever is nothing I haven't seen before. And I don't fear the Oskneyans; I faced them before and survived, so why wouldn't I be able to do so again? To be quite honest I didn't really miss Redwall all that much while I was at Byrnach. Thisabbey will always hold a special place in my heart, but I learned four seasons ago that I could live anywhere I wished."

Tristan swept Shilly in his arms and held her tight. "I'm so happy," he said softly. "Oh, thank you, Shilly." He collected himself after a few moments, allowing the pair to walk again, holding paws.

"So shall we go and tell everybeast the good news?" Tristan suggested.

Shilly looked off into the distance and smiled.

"It can wait," she said. "For now, let's just enjoy the moment."


	27. Epilogue

_From the writings of Sister Springald._

Well, it seems that we are parting with one of our dear friends. Shilly has accepted to marry Tristan! Sister Martha is rather annoyed by the situation, and she has been seen grumbling to herself about where she is ever going to find a replacement for when she's gone. I respect her feelings, but I think it's very strange that she should care about a replacement more than a marriage.

The wedding has been set for a few days from now, allowing our kitchens enough time to prepare for the feast that will follow. We have to take extra into account for Tristan's soldiers—I swear, the way they eat they could keep up with Long Patrol hares. Our Mother Abbess will preside over the ceremony, of course, and the Dibbuns will not be satisfied unless they have some task to perform. It's actually quite fun thinking up little ceremonial things for the little ones to do.

Yooch was also asked if he would be willing to come to the Northlands. He politely refused; I think he did not take to the region quite as well as Shilly. He will miss his friend, as will we all, but Shilly must follow her heart wherever it leads. And it is nice that, after a lifetime of loss and hardship, Tristan will finally have a happy ending. They are welcome here any time, as is any creature who comes to our door looking to find his way.

_Springald, Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower Country._

THE END


End file.
